LIBRA  HY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 


606.6 

R43-J 

1906 


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in  2019  with  funding  from 
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Specially  engraved  for  the  Ridpath  Library. 


JOHN  ^ 
CLARK. 
RIDPATH 


CLASSIC 

EDITION  DE  LUXE 

‘fWEMTY  FIVE  VOLUMES 


FIFTH  AVENUE  LIBRARY  SOCIETY 
NEW  YORK 


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A  Biographical  and  Bibliographical  Summary  of  the 
World's  Most  Eminent  Authors,  including  the  Choicest 
Selections  and  Masterpi  *ces  from  their  Writings,  Com¬ 
prising  the  Best  Features  of  Many  Celebrated  Com¬ 
pilations,  Notably  ^  ^  ^ 


THE  GUERNSEY  COLLECTION 

THE  DE  PUY  COLLECTION 

THE  RIDPATH  COLLECTION 


Carefully  edited  and  arranged  by  a  corps 
of  the  most  capable  scholars 


EDITOR  IN  CHIEF 

JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH,  A.M.,  LL.D. 

Author  of  “Ridpath’s  History  of  the  United  States,”  “Encyclopedia  of 
Universal  History,”  “Great  Races  of  Mankind,”  etc.,  etc. 


WITH  REVISIONS  AND  ADDITIONS  BY 

WILL  M.  CLEMENS 

Author  of  “  The  Life  of  Roosevelt,”  “  The  Life  of  Mark  Twain,”  “The  Life 
of  Kipling.”  Of  the  Editorial  Staff  of  the  “Encyclopedia 

Americana,”  etc. 


TWENTY-FIVE  VOLUMES 


NEW  YORK 

the:  fifth  avenue  library  socie:ty 


19  0  6 


Copyright,  1906 
BY 

THE  FIFTH  AVENUE  LIBRARY  SOCIETY 


All  rights  reserved 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  XXIII. 


PAGE 

Turner,  Charles  Tennyson . 7 

Tuttiett,  Mary  Gray . 10 

Twain,  Mark,  see  Clemens,  Samuel  Langhorne  . 

Tyler,  Moses  Coit . 17 

Tyler,  Roy  all . 25 

Tyndall,  John . 29 

Tyrt^eus . 33 

Tytler,  Alexander  Fraser . 36 

Tytler,  Patrick  Fraser . 39 

Udall,  Nicholas . 43 

Uhland,  Johann  Ludwig  . . 46 

Ulbach,  Louis . 58 

Ulfilas,  or  Wulfila . 61 

Uncle  Remus,  see  Harris,  Joel  Chandler  .... 

Upton,  George  Putnam . 63 

Urquhart,  David . 67 

Valaoritis,  Aristoteles* . 7° 

Valdes,  Armando  Palacio . 73 

Valera  y  Alcala  Galiano,  Juan . 77 

Vambery,  Arminius . 81 

Van  Alstyne,  Frances  Jane  Crosby . 84 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  John . 85 

Van  Dyke,  Henry  Jackson . .  .  90 

Van  Dyke,  John  Charles . 92 

Vaughan,  Henry . 98 

Vauquelin,  Jean  de  la  Fresnaye . 109 

Vaux,  Thomas . .  •  •  •  •  m 

Vazoff,  Ivan . IJ3 

•  •  • 

111 


IV 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  XXI II. 


PAGE 

Vedas . n  6 

Vedder,  David . 121 

Vega  Carpio,  Felix  Lope  de . 123 

Vere,  Auerey  de,  see  De  Vere,  Aubrey . 

Verhaeren,  Emile . 127 

Verlaine,  Paul . 130 

Verne,  Jules . 133 

Vernon  Lee,  see  Paget,  Violet . 

Verplanck,  Julian  Crommelin . 161 

Very,  Jones . 171 

V iau,  Theophile  de . 177 

Viaud,  Louis  Marie  Julien . 179 

Vidal,  Peter . 184 

Vigny,  Alfred  Victor  de . 186 

VlLLARI,  PASQUALE . 190 

Villemain,  Abel  Francois . 198 

Villon,  Francois . 200 

Vincent,  Frank . 206 

Vincent,  John  Heyl . 208 

Virgil  . 21 1 

Vogue,  Eugene  Marie  Melchior,  Vicomte  de  .  247 

Voisenon,  Claude-Henri  Fusee  de . 250 

Volney,  Constantin  Francois  de  Chassebceuf  .  .  .  252 

Voltaire,  Francois  Marie  Arouet  de . 254 

VONDEL,  JOOST  VAN  DeN . 2  66 

Voss,  Johann  Heinrich . 270 

Voynich,  Ethel  Lillian  Boole . 272 

Vries,  Hugo  de . 274 

Wace,  Robert . 292 

Wagner,  Charles . 294 

Wagner,  Wilhelm  Richard . 303 

Wakefield,  Nancy  Amelia  Woodury  Priest  ....  323 

Wakeman,  Edward  Lewis . 325 

Walford,  Lucy  Betkia  Colquhoun . 328 

Walker,  James  Barr . 332 

Wallace,  Alfred  Russel . 337 

Wallace,  Horace  Binney . 340 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS  VOL.  XXIII. 


v 


Wallace,  Lewis . 343 

Wallace,  Susan  Arnold  Elston . 350 

Wallace,  William  Ross . 355 

Waller,  Edmund . 358 

Walpole,  Horace . 366 

Walton,  Izaaic . 381 

Walworth,  Clarence  Alphonsus . 390 

Warburton,  Eliot  Bartholemew  George . 392 

Warburton,  William  . . 394 

Ward,  Artemus,  see  Brown,  Charles  Farrar  . 

Ward,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps . 401 

Ward,  Mary  Augusta  Arnold . 408 

Ward,  Nathaniel  .  > . 414 

Warden,  Florence,  see  James,  Florence . 

Ware,  Eugene  Fitch  . . 423 

Ware,  William . 426 

W arman,  Cy . 433 

Warner,  Anna  Bartlett . 438 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley . 441 

Warner,  Susan . 45 1 

Warren,  John  Byrne  Leicester . 455 

Warren,  Samuel . 458 

Warton,  Joseph . 460 

Warton,  Thomas . 462 

Washington,  Booker  Taliaferro . 465 

Washington,  George . 475 

Wasson,  David  Atwood . 483 

Waters,  Clara  Erskine  Clement . 486 

Waterton,  Charles . 489 


C^^URNER,  Charles  Tennyson,  an  English  poet; 
wl®  k°rn  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  July  4,  1808; 

died  at  Cheltenham,  April  25,  1879.  He  was 
an  elder  brother  of  the  poet-laureate  Tennyson.  In 
1835  he  became  vicar  of  Grasby;  and  here  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  life.  In  1835  he  inherited  of 
his  great-uncle,  Rev.  Samuel  Turner,  the  Grasby  liv¬ 
ing  and  Caistor  House ;  and  thereupon,  by  royal  li¬ 
cense,  he  assumed  the  name  of  Turner.  He  was  joint 
author,  with  his  brother  Alfred,  of  a  volume  of  juve¬ 
nile  poems  published  in  1827  under  the  title  Poems  by 
Two  Brothers.  His  other  works  include  Sonnets  and 
Fugitive  Pieces  (1830)  ;  Sonnets  (1864)  ;  Small  Tab¬ 
leaux  (1868)  ;  Sonnets,  Lyrics,  and  Translations 
(1873)  Collected  Sonnets,  Old  and  New  (1880). 
An  article  from  his  pen,  entitled  My  Timepiece,  was 
published  in  Good  Words  in  1870;  and  several  of 
his  poetical  pieces  first  appeared  in  Macmillan's  Maga¬ 
zine. 

THE  SCHOOLBOY’S  DREAM. 

’Twas  the  half-year’s  last  day,  a  festal  one; 

Light  tasks  and  feast  and  sport,  hoop,  cricket,  kite, 
Employed  us  fully,  till  the  summer  night 
Stole  o’er  the  roofs  of  happy  Alderton. 

(7) 


8 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 


Homer  in-doors,  and  field  games  out  of  school, 

Made  medley  of  my  dreams ;  for,  when  I  slept, 

The  quaintest'  vision  o’er  my  fancy  swept, 

That  ever  served  the  lordship  of  misrule : 

Our  hoops  through  gods  and  heroes  ran  a-muck; 

Our  kites  o’erhung  the  fleets,  a  public  gaze  ! 

And  one  wild  ball  the  great  Achilles  struck  — 

Oh  !  how  he  towered  and  lightened  at  the  stroke ! 
But,  tho’  his  formal  pardon  I  bespoke, 

I  told  him  plainly  ’twas  our  holidays. 

JOY. 

Joy  came  from  Heaven,  for  men  were  mad  with  pain, 
And  sought  a  mansion  on  this  earth  below ; 

He  could  not  settle  on  the  wrinkled  brow, 
Close-gathered  to  repel  him,  and  again 
Upon  the  cheek  he  sought  repose  in  vain, 

He  found  that  pillow  all  too  chill  and  cold, 

Where  sorrow’s  streams  might  float  him  from  his  hold, 
Caught  sleeping  in  their  channel ;  the  eye  would  fain 
Receive  the  stranger  on  its  slippery  sphere, 

Where  life  had  purer  effluence  than  elsewhere, 

But  where  no  barrier  might  forbid  the  tear 
To  sweep  it  when  it  listed;  so  that  there 
He  stayed,  nor  could  the  lips  his  couch  prepare, 
Shifting  untenably  from  smile  to  sneer. 

A  DREAM. 

I  dreamed  —  methought  I  stood  upon  a  strand 
Unblest  with  day  for  ages ;  and  despair 
Had  seized  me,  but  for  cooling  airs  that  fanned 
My  forehead,  and  a  voice  that  said  “  Prepare !  ” 

Anon  I  felt  that  dawning  was  at  hand ; 

A  planet  rose,  whose  light  no  cloud  could  mar, 

And  made  through  all  the  landscape,  near  and  farr 
A  wild  half-morning  for  that  dreary  land ; 

I  saw  her  seas  come  washing  to  the  shore 
In  sheets  of  gleaming  ripples,  wide  and  fair; 

I  saw  her  goodly  rivers  brimming  o’er, 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 


9 


And  from  their  fruitful  shallows  looked  the  star; 

And  all  seemed  kissed  with  starlight;  till  the  beam 
f  sunrise  broke,  and  yet  fulfilled  my  dream. 

A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Nor,  could  I  bring  within  my  visual  scope 
The  great  localities  old  stories  boast. 

Would  I  forget  thee,  Troas;  whose  first  hope 
Of  travel  pointed  to  thy  lonely  coast; 

How  would  my  quickened  fancy  reproduce 
The  incessant  brazen  flash  of  Homer’s  war, 

And  heroes  moving  quick  their  ground  to  choose 
With  spear-tops  burning  like  the  autumn  star, 
Along  that  sullen  seaboard,  till  at  length 
Mine  ear  should  thrill,  my  startled  pulses  bound, 
When  from  the  trench  those  two  grand  voices  rose, 
And,  each  involved  in  other,  swept  their  foes 
Before  them  like  a  storm,  the  wrath  and  strength 
Of  God  and  man  conspiring  to  the  sound. 

THE  LATTICE  AT  SUNRISE. 

As  on  my  bed  I  mused  and  prayed, 

I  saw  my  lattice  prankt  upon  the  wall, 

The  flaunting  leaves  and  flitting  birds  withal  — 

A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade. 

“  Thanks  be  to  Heaven  !  ”  in  happy  mood  I  said; 

“  What  sweeter  aid  my  matins  could  befall 

Than  this  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath  made? 
What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of  all, 

To  bid  us  feel  and  see  !  We  are  not  free 
To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea; 

His  lustre  pierceth  through  the  midnight  glooms; 

And  at  prime  hours,  behold,  he  follows  me 
With  golden  shadows  to  my  secret  rooms.” 

letty’s  globe. 

When  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad  year, 
And  her  young,  artless  words  began  to  flow, 


10 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colored  sphere 

Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know 
By  tint  and  outline  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world;  old  empires  peeped 
Between  her  baby  fingers;  her  soft  hand 

Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers;  how  she  leaped 
And  laughed  and  prattled  in  her  pride  of  bliss ! 
But  when  we  turned  her  sweet,  unlearned  eye 
On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry  — 

“Oh,  yes!  I  see  it;  Letty’s  home  is  there!” 

And  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 

Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 


THE  OCEAN 


The  ocean  at  the  bidding  of  the  moon 
Forever  changes  with  his  restless  tide; 

Flung  shoreward  now,  to  be  regathered  soon 
With  kingly  pauses  of  reluctant  pride, 

And  semblance  of  return.  Anon  from  home 
He  issues  forth  anew,  high-ridged  and  free  — 
The  gentlest  murmur  of  his  seething  foam 

Like  armies  whispering  where  great  echoes  be. 
Oh,  leave  me  here  upon  this  beach  to  rove, 

Mute  listener  to  that  sound  so  grand  and  lone ! 

A  glorious  sound,  deep  drawn  and  strongly  thrown 
And  reaching  those  on  mountain  heights  above, 

To  British  ears  (as  who  shall  scorn  to  own?) 

A  tutelar  fond  voice,  a  savior  tone  of  love 


UTTIETT,  Mary  Gray  (“  Maxwell  Gray”), 


an  English  novelist;  born  at  Newport,  Isle  of 


Wight,  in  1850.  She  early  began  a  literary 
career  by  writing  essays  and  verse  for  the  magazines. 
Her  first  novel,  The  Broken  Tryst ,  appeared  in  1879, 
but  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland  (1886)  brought  her 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


before  the  British  and  American  public  as  one  of  the 
most  notable  of  the  later  novelists.  Her  subsequent 
novels  include  The  Reproach  of  Annesley  (1888); 
In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm  (1891)  ;  An  Innocent  Im¬ 
postor  (1892)  ;  The  Last  Sentence  (1893)  ;  A  Costly 
Freak  (1894)  ;  Songs  of  the  Dragon  Slayer  (1895)  ; 
Sweethearts  and  Friends  (1897)  ;  The  Flouse  of  Hid¬ 
den  Treasure  (1898);  Ribstone  Pippins  (1898);  The 
Forest  Chapel  (1899);  The  World’s  Mercy  (1900); 
Four  Leaved  Clover  (1902)  ;  and  Richard  Rosny 

(1903)- 

THE  LAST  SERMON. 

He  gave  out  his  text,  “  I  will  confess  my  wickedness, 
and  be  sorry  for  my  sin,”  and  began  quietly  reading  from 
the  manuscript  before  him  in  a  clear  and  harmonious 
but  strikingly  level  tone,  which,  though  audible  all  over 
the  building,  did  not  correct  the  general  tendency  to 
drowsiness  on  that  hot  and  drowsy  afternoon. 

The  premier  and  those  who  heard  him  for  the  first  time 
were  disappointed,  the  premier  deciding  within  himself 
that  he  would  not  confer  much  luster  upon  the  oratory 
of  the  Upper  House,  and  would  never  endanger  Bishop 
Oliver’s  position  as  the  best  speaker  on  the  Bench. 

It  was  a  sermon  such  as  dozens  of  clergymen  turn  out 
every  day.  The  preacher  exhorted  his  hearers  to  repent 
and  confess  their  sins.  He  reminded  them  that  repentance 
is  the  first  and  last  duty  which  the  Church  enjoins  on  her 
children.  He  alluded  to  the  different  practices  of  the 
Church  in  different  ages  with  regard  to  it,  and  its  exag¬ 
geration  in  the  Roman  Communion  and  in  old  American 
Puritan  days.  He  observed  that  some  sins  exacted  public 
confession.  At  this  point  he  became  a  little  paler,  and 
his  voice  rose  on  its  accustomed  sonorous  swell.  He  said 
that'  it  was  a  right  and  wholesome  feeling  which  pros¬ 
trated  a  crowned  king  before  the  tomb  of  the  murdered 
archbishop  of  Canterbury,  kept  an  emperor  barefoot  in 
the  snow  at  Canossa,  and  humiliated  Theodosius  before 


12 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


the  closed  gates  of  Milan  Cathedral.  “  Do  you  know, 
my  brothers,”  he  continued,  with  a  thrill  of  intense  feel¬ 
ing  in  his  voice,  “  why  I  speak  to-day  of  the  duty  of 
public  confession  of  public  sin?  I  have  a  purpose.” 

He  paused.  For  some  moments  there  reigned  that 
dread  silence  which  is  so  awfully  impressive  in  a  vast 
assembly  of  living  and  breathing  human  beings.  He 
paused  so  long  that  people  grew  uncomfortable,  thinking 
he  must  be  ill,  and  the  buzzing  of  a  perplexed  humble-bee, 
which  had  somehow  strayed  into  the  choir,  and  was 
tumbling  aimlessly  against  people’s  heads,  sounded  loud 
and  profane,  and  the  man  who  could  not  repress  a  sneeze 
and  the  lady  who  let  her  prayer-book  fall  felt  each  guilty 
of  an  unpardonable  crime.  Meantime,  the  dean  gazed 
quietly  before  him,  and  no  one  saw  the  chill  drops  of 
agony  which  beaded  his  brow,  or  suspected  the  anguish 
which  literally  rent  his  heart. 

The  bishop  with  difficulty  suppressed  a  grunt  of  dis¬ 
approval.  “  He  pauses  for  effect,”  he  thought ;  “  now  for 
the  fire-works !  Divine  rage  consumes  the  dean !  Out 
with  the  handkerchiefs.  If  people  must  rant,  why  on 
earth  can’t  they  rant  in  barns  ?  ” 

“  My  brothers,”  continued  the  dean,  at  last  breaking  the 
thrilling  silence,  and  speaking  in  a  low  but  perfectly  clear 
and  audible  voice,  “  it  is  because  I  myself  am  the  most 
grievous  of  sinners  and  have  sinned  publicly  in  the  face 
of  this  great  congregation,  the  meanest  among  whom  I 
am  unworthy  to  address,  because  I  wish  to  confess  my 
wickedness,  and  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for  my  sin.  I 
have  no  right  to  be  standing  in  this  place  to-day;  to  be 
the  parish  priest,  as  it  were,  of  this  noble  building;  to  fill 
an  office  hallowed  by  the  service  of  a  long  line  of  saintly 
men.  My  life  has  been  one  black  lie.  The  three  darkest 
blots  upon  the  soul  of  man  —  impurity ,  bloodshed ,  treach¬ 
ery  —  have  stained  my  soul.” 

At  these  words  there  was  a  faint  rustle  of  surprise 
through  all  the  congregation.  The  bishop  frowned ;  “  He 
drives  his  theatrical  exaggeration  too  far,”  he  thought. 
The  duke  and  Lord  Arthur  recovered  from  the  gentle 
slumber  the  sermon’s  beginning  had  induced.  Every  eye 
was  fixed  in  wonder,  interest,  or  incredulity  upon  the 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


13 


marble  features  of  the  preacher  —  that  is,  every  eye  within 
the  choir;  while  to  those  outside  it,  who  heard  the  voice 
from  an  invisible  source,  the  effect  was  doubled. 

“  My  life,”  he  continued,  “  has  been  outwardly  success¬ 
ful  in  no  small  degree.  I  have,  in  spite  of  my  sin,  been 
permitted  to  minister  to  sick  souls ;  for  the  Almighty  is 
pleased  sometimes  to  use  the  vilest  instruments  for  noble 
ends.  I  have  sat  at  good  men’s  feasts,  an  honored  guest; 
yes,  and  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  the  very  greatest  in 
the  land.  I  have  risen  to  a  position  of  eminence  in  the 
ministry  of  our  national  Church  —  that  Church  whose 
meanest  office  better  men  than  I  are  unworthy  to  fill.  I 
have  been  offered  still  greater  honors,  the  office  of  bishop 
and  the  dignity  of  a  spiritual  peerage,  as  you  all  know ; 
nor  was  it  till  now  my  intention  to  decline  this  promotion. 
I  have  been  much  before  the  public  in  other  ways,  which 
it  were  unbecoming  to  mention  in  this  holy  place.  Such 
dignities  as  have  been  mine,  my  brothers  —  for  I  may 
still,  in  spite  of  my  sins,  call  you  brothers,  since  I  am 
still  God’s  child,  and  only  desire  to  return  to  Him  by 
the  way  of  penitence  —  such  dignities  are  based  upon  the 
assumption  not  only  of  moral  rectitude,  but  of  decided 
piety,  and  neither  of  these  has  ever  been  mine.  My  be¬ 
loved  brothers,  hear  me,  and  take  warning,  and  oh  !  pity 
me,  for  I  am  the  most  miserable  of  men.  Like  those 
against  whom  Christ  pronounced  such  bitter  woes,  I  have 
desired  to  wear  long  robes,  to  receive  greetings  in  the 
market-place,  to  occupy  the  chief  seats  in  synagogues ; 
these  things  have  been  the  very  breath  of  my  nostrils, 
and  for  these  I  have  sinned  heavily,  heavily.  The  favor 
of  men  has  been  dear  to  me,  therefore  I  offer  myself  to 
their  scorn.  To  no  man,  I  think,  has  man’s  favor  been 
dearer  than  to  me.  Ah,  my  brothers,  there  is  no  more 
bitter  poison  to  the  soul  than  the  sweetness  I  loved  with 
such  idolatry !  Well  does  our  Saviour  warn  us  against 
it.” 

He  spoke  all  this  with  quiet  anguish,  straight  from  his 
heart,  his  manuscript  being  closed;  while  at  this  point 
tears  came  and  dimmed  the  blue  luster  of  his  large  deep 
eyes,  and  coursed  quietly  and  unheeded  down  his  cheeks. 
The  congregation  still  listened  with  wide-eyed  wonder,  not 


U 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


knowing  how  to  take  these  extraordinary  utterances,  and 
half  suspecting  that  they  were  the  victims  of  some  stage 
effect.  But  the  premier’s  face  wore  a  startled  gaze,  and 
he  looked  round  uneasily.  The  idea  suddenly  entered  his 
head,  that  his  recent  elevation  and  the  strenuously  toil¬ 
some  life  he  led  had  been  too  much  for  the  dean,  and 
driven  him  mad.  Nor  was  he  alone  in  his  belief,  which 
was  shared  by  the  dean’s  doctor  amongst  others. 

The  bishop  was  terribly  moved,  and  half  doubtful 
whether  it  would  not  be  well  to  persuade  the  preacher  to 
leave  the  pulpit  as  quietly  as  possible ;  he  too  thought 
the  dean  mad,  and  trembled  lest  the  gossip  his  own  son 
had  repeated  might  have  driven  his  sensitive  organiza¬ 
tion  off  its  balance.  Tears  sprung  to  his  eyes,  and  he 
loathed  himself  for  the  petty  feelings  he  had  suffered  to 
enter  his  heart  that  very  day. 

“  What  I  confess  now,  in  the  presence  of  God  and  of 
this  congregation,  against  whom  I  have  sinned,”  continued 
the  preacher,  “  I  shall  confess  shortly  before  the  civil 
tribunals  of  this  land,  the  laws  of  which  I  have  broken. 
Nineteen  years  ago,  when  in  deacon’s  orders,  I  led  an 
innocent  young  woman  astray.”  Here  his  voice  broke 
with  a  heavy  sob.  “  I  was  the  tempter  —  I,  who  fell 
because  I  deemed  myself  above  temptation.  My  brothers, 
since  then  I  have  not  had  one  happy  hour.  Mark  that, 
you  who  perchance  stand  on  the  verge  of  transgression. 
But  that  is  not  all.  With  a  heart  still  stained  with  that 
iniquity,  which  I  vainly  tried  to  expiate  by  bodily  penance, 
I  took  upon  me,  in  this  very  cathedral,  the  awful  re¬ 
sponsibilities  of  the  priesthood,  and  fell  into  new  tempta¬ 
tion. 

“  The  father  of  this  poor  girl  discovered  my  iniquity, 
and,  justly  angered,  fell  upon  me  with  violence.  In  the 
struggle,  I  know  not  how,  I  killed  him.  Yes,  my  brothers, 
look  upon  me  with  the  honest'  scorn  you  must  feel  when 
you  hear  that  these  hands,  which  have  broken  the  bread 
of  life  and  sprinkled  the  waters  of  healing,  are  red  with 
the  blood  of  the  man  I  wronged.  But  even  that  is  not  the 
full  measure  of  my  iniquity.  I  had  a  friend ;  I  loved 
him  —  I  loved  him,  I  tell  you,”  he  echoed,  passionatelv, 
“  more  than  any  mortal  man.  He  was  a  man  of  noble 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


character  and  spotless  life ;  he  had  gifts  which  gave  prom¬ 
ise  of  a  glorious  and  beneficent  career.  Suspicion  fell 
upon  him  through  my  fault,  but  not  my  deliberate  fault. 
He  was  tried  for  my  crime,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to 
twenty  years’  penal  servitude.” 

Here  the  preacher  trembled  exceedingly,  and  was 
obliged  to  pause,  while  people  looked  from  one  to  an¬ 
other  with  horror-stricken  eyes  and  blanched  faces,  and 
the  very  air  seemed  to  palpitate  with  their  agitation. 
“  Two  days  ago,”  continued  the  unhappy  man,  “  he  came, 
fresh  from  the  prison,  to  worship  in  this  holy  place.  I 
was  preaching  —  I,  the  traitor,  the  hypocrite;  I  who  had 
lived  in  palaces  while  the  friend  of  my  youth  pined  in 
the  prison  I  had  deserved  —  I  saw  him ;  I  recognized  him 
through  all  the  terrible  changes  that  awful  misery  had 

wrought  upon  him.  I  could  not  bear  the  sight,  and  fled 

from  it  like  another  Cain.  But  I  did  not  even  then  repent. 

“  My  brothers,  this  man  wrote  to  me  and  forgave  me, 
and  that  broke  my  stony  heart.  The  Almighty  had  called 
me  by  heavy  sorrows  through  many  years  to  repentance, 
but  I  repented  not  until  I  was  forgiven.  The  All-Merciful 
did  not  leave  me  alone  in  my  wickedness.  I  saw  the 

wife  of  my  youth  pine  away  before  my  eyes,  and  my 

children  fade  one  by  one  till  my  home  became  a  desolation, 
and  yet  I  sinned  on,  deadening  my  conscience  by  continual 
opiates  of  subtlest  sophistry.  It  is  not  for  me  to  detail 
these;  to  say  how  I  persuaded  myself  that  my  gifts  were 
needed  in  the  ministry  of  the  Church ;  that  I  was  bound 
to  sacrifice  all,  even  conscience,  to  the  sacred  calling,  and 
such-like.  Blind  was  I,  blind  with  pride  and  self-love. 
Nay,  I  refused  even  to  look  my  sin  in  the  face.  I  stifled 
memory ;  I  never  realized  what  I  had  done  until  the  awful 
moment  of  revelation,  when  I  stood  eye  to  eye  with  the 
friend  I  betrayed.  My  dear  brothers,  have  you  ever 
thought  what  years  of  penal  servitude  must  mean  to  a 
gentleman,  a  man  of  refined  feelings,  of  intellectual  tastes, 
of  unusual  culture?  To  be  herded  with  the  vicious,  the 
depraved,  the  brutal,  the  defective  or  degraded  organiza¬ 
tions  which  swell  the  mass  of  crime  in  our  land ;  to  be  cut 
off  from  all  other  human  intercourse,  all  converse  with 
the  world  of  intellect  and  culture;  to  pass  weary,  weary 


i6 


MARY  GRAY  TUTTIETT 


years  in  fruitless  manual  toil  and  pining  captivity;  to 
wear  the  garb  of  shame;  to  be  subject  to  rough  and  un¬ 
educated  and  not  always  kindly  jailers  ” — here  something 
choked  his  utterance  for  awhile  — “  to  know  no  earthly 
hope ;  to  see  the  long  vista  of  twenty  years’  monotonous 
misery  streaching  remorselessly  ahead,  and  all  this  in  the 
flower  of  youth  and  the  blossom-time  of  life?  From  six- 
and-twenty  to  six-and-forty !  Can  you  grasp  what'  that 
means  ?  This,  and  more  than  this,  I  inflicted  on  the  friend 
who  loved  and  trusted  me ;  and  of  this  I  declare  before 
God  and  man  I  repent,  and  desire  as  far  as  possible  to 
amend. 

“  In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  in  a  felon’s  cell.  I  shall  be 
happier  there  than  I  have  ever  been  in  the  brightest 
moments  of  my  prosperity.  My  brothers,  I  still  bear  a 
divine  commission  to  warn  and  teach;  I  beseech  you  to 
heed  my  story  and  take  warning.  Let  me  be  to  you  as 
the  sunken  vessel  which  marks  the  treacherous  reef  be¬ 
neath  the  wave !  Listen  and  heed  well  what  I  say,  as  it 
were,  with  dying  breath,  for  I  shall  be  civilly  dead,  vir¬ 
tually  dead,  in  twelve  hours’  time.  I  repent,  and  there 
is  mercy  for  me  as  for  the  vilest;  but  I  can  never  undo 
the  consequences  of  my  sins  —  never,  though  I  strove 
through  all  the  endless  ages  of  eternity.  I  can  not  restore 
honor  and  innocence  to  her  whom  I  robbed  of  these  price¬ 
less  jewels.  I  can  not  give  back  his  life  to  him  whose 
blood  I  shed.  I  can  not  recall  the  years  of  youth,  and 
hope,  and  health,  and  power  of  wide  usefulness  which 
were  blasted  in  the  prison  of  my  friend.  It  were  rash  to 
say  that  the  Almighty  can  not  do  these  things ;  it  is 
certain  He  can  not  without  disordering  the  whole  scheme 
of  human  life,  certain  that  He  will  not.  How  far  the 
human  will  can  frustrate  the  divine  purposes  has  never 
been  revealed  to  mortal  man  —  is  probably  unknown  to 
the  wisdom  of  seraphs;  but  this  we  know,  that  nothing 
can  happen  without  divine  permission.  It  may  be  that 
man’s  will  is  absolutely  free  with  regard  to  thought,  and 
only  limited  with  regard  to  action,  to  its  effects  upon 
others.  Certain  it  is,  that  God  can  bring  good  out  of  evil, 
and  that  those  who  trust  in  Him,  however  oppressed  and 
afflicted  by  the  wickedness  of  their  fellow-men,  will  never- 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


17 


theless  be  delivered  in  all  their  afflictions,  and  that  to 
them  ‘  all  things  work  for  good/  These  are  my  last 
words,  dear  brothers.  Ponder  them,  I  beseech  you,  as 
men  ponder  dying  words,  even  of  the  vilest.” 

The  dean  ceased,  and,  turning,  as  usual,  to  the  east, 
repeated  the  ascription  with  humble  reverence.  He  then 
turned  once  more  to  the  congregation,  and  seated  himself, 
with  a  sigh  of  exhaustion,  while  the  bishop,  whose  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  stood  with  uplifted  hand  and  pro¬ 
nounced  the  benediction,  in  a  moved  and  awe-stricken 
voice,  upon  the  agitated,  half-terrified  multitude,  and  upon 
the  unheeding  ears  of  the  dean. —  The  Silence  of  Dean 
Maitland. 


(g^&^YLER,  Moses  Coit,  an  American  historian  and 
critic;  born  at  Griswold,  Conn.,  August  2, 
1835 ;  died  at  Ithaca,  N.  Y.,  December  28, 
1900.  He  was  graduated  from  Yale  in  1857;  in  1867 
he  was  made  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Michigan,  and  in  1881 
Professor  of  American  History  in  Cornell  University. 
In  1881  he  took  orders  in  the  Episcopal  Church.  His 
principal  works  are  The  Brawnville  Papers  (1868); 
History  of  American  Literature  (Vols.  I.,  II.,  1878)  ; 
Manual  of  English  Literature  (1879)  1  Life  of  Patrick 
Henry  (1888)  ;  History  of  American  Literature  Dur¬ 
ing  the  Colonial  Time  (1897);  The  Literary  History 
of  the  American  Revolution  (1897). 

THE  EARLIEST  AMERICAN  BOOK. 

Captain  John  Smith  became  a  somewhat  prolific  author; 
but  while  nearly  all  of  his  books  have  a  leading  reference 
to  America,  only  three  of  them  were  written  during  the 
period  of  his  residence  as  a  colonist  in  America.  Only 
Vol.  XXIII.— 2 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


T° 

To 

these  three,  therefore,  can  be  claimed  by  us  as  belonging 
to  the  literature  of  our  country.  The  first  of  these  books, 
A  True  Relation  of  Virginia,  is  of  deep  interest  to  us, 
not  only  on  account  of  its  graphic  style,  and  the  strong 
light  it  throws  upon  the  very  beginning  of  our  national 
history,  but  as  being  unquestionably  the  earliest  book  in 
American  literature.  It  was  written  during  the  first  thir¬ 
teen  months  of  the  first  American  colony,  and  gives  a 
simple  and  picturesque  account  of  the  stirring  events 
which  took  place  there  during  that  time,  under  his  own 
eye.  It  was  probably  carried  to  London  by  Captain  Nel¬ 
son  of  the  good  ship  Phoenix,  which  sailed  from  James¬ 
town  on  June  -2,  1608 ;  and  it  was  published  in  London 
and  sold  “  at  the  Grayhound  in  Paul’s  Church- Yard,”  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  same  year.  .  .  . 

Barely  hinting  at  the  length  and  tediousness  of  the  sea- 
voyage,  the  author  plunges  with  epic  promptitude  into 
the  midst  of  the  action,  by  describing  their  arrival  in  Vir¬ 
ginia,  their  first  ungentle  passages  with  the  Indians,  their 
selection  of  a  place  of  settlement,  their  first  civil  organi¬ 
zation,  their  first  .expedition  for  discovery  toward  the 
upper  waters  of  the  James  River,  the  first  formidable 
Indian  attack  upon  their  village,  and  the  first  return  for 
England,  two  months  after  their  arrival,  of  the  ships 
that  had  brought  them  to  Virginia. 

Upon  the  departure  of  these  ships,  bitter  quarrels 
broke  out  among  the  colonists.  “  Things  were  neither 
carried  on  with  that  discretion  nor  any  business  effected 
in  such  good  sort  as  wisdom  would ;  .  .  .  through 

which  disorder,  God  being  angry  with  us,  plagued  us 
with  such  famine  and  sickness  that  the  living  were  scarce 
able  to  bury  the  dead.  ...  As  yet  we  had  no  houses 
to  cover  us;  our  tent's  were  rotten,  and  our  cabins  worse 
than  nought.  .  .  .  The  president  and  Captain  Mar¬ 

ten’s  sickness  compelled  me  to  be  cape-merchant,  and  yet 
to  spare  no  pains  in  making  houses  for  the  company,  who, 
notwithstanding  our  misery,  little  ceased  their  malice, 
grudging  and  muttering  .  .  .  being  in  such  despair 
as  they  would  rather  starve  and  rot  with  idleness  than  be 
persuaded  to  do  anything  for  their  own  relief  without 
constraint.” 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


i9 


But  the  energetic  Captain  had  an  eager  passion  for 
making  tours  of  exploration  along  the  coast  and  up  the 
rivers ;  and  after  telling  how  he  procured  corn  from  the 
Indians,  and  thus  supplied  the  instant  necessities  of  the 
starving  colonists,  he  proceeds  to  relate  the  history  of 
a  tour  of  discovery  made  by  him  up  the  Chickahominy, 
on  which  tour  happened  the  famous  incident  of  his  fall¬ 
ing  into  captivity  among  the  Indians.  The  reader  will 
not  fail  to  notice  that'  in  this  earliest  book  of  his,  writ¬ 
ten  before  Powhatan’s  daughter,  the  Princess  Pocahontas, 
had  become  celebrated  in  England,  and  before  Captain 
Smith  had  that  enticing  motive  for  representing  him¬ 
self  as  specially  favored  by  her,  he  speaks  of  Powhatan 
as  full  of  friendliness  to  him ;  he  expressly  states  that 
his  own  life  was  in  no  danger  at  the  hands  of  that  Indian 
potentate ;  and  of  course  he  has  no  situation  on  which  to 
hang  the  romantic  incident  of  his  rescue  by  Pocohontas 
from  impending  death.  This  pretty  story  has  now  lost' 
historical  credit,  and  is  generally  given  up  by  critical 
students  of  our  early  history. 

Having  ascended  the  Chickahominy  about  sixty  miles, 
he  took  with  him  a  single  Indian  guide,  and  pushed  into 
the  woods.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  “  heard  a 
loud  cry  and  a  hallooing  of  Indians,”  and  almost  imme¬ 
diately  he  was  assaulted  by  two  hundred  of  them,  led  by 
Opechancanough,  an  under-king  to  the  Emperor  Pow¬ 
hatan.  The  valiant  Captain,  in  a  contest  so  unequal, 
certainly  was  entitled  to  a  shield ;  and  this  he  rather 
ungenerously  extemporized  by  seizing  his  Indian  guide, 
and  with  his  garters  binding  the  Indian’s  arm  to  his  own 
hand ;  thus,  as  he  coolly  expresses  it,  “  making  my  hind 
my  barricado.” 

As  these  Indians  still  pressed  toward  him,  Captain 
Smith  discharged  his  pistol,  which  wounded  some  of  his 
assailants,  and  taught  them  all  a  wholesome  respect  by 
the  terror  of  its  sound ;  then,  after  much  parley  he  sur¬ 
rendered  to  them,  and  was  carried  off  prisoner  to  a  place 
about  six  miles  distant.  There  he  expected  to  be  at’  once 
put  to  death,  but  was  agreeably  surprised  by  being  treated 
with  the  utmost  kindness.  .  .  . 

After  many  days  spent  in  traveling  hither  and  yon 


20 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


with  his  captors,  he  was  at  last,  by  his  own  request,  de¬ 
livered  up  to  Powhatan,  the  over-lord  of  that  region. 
He  gives  a  picturesque  description  of  the  barbaric  state 
in  which  he  was  received  by  that  potent  chieftain,  whom 
he  found  “  proudly  lying  upon  a  bedstead  a  foot  high, 
upon  ten  or  twelve  mats,”  the  emperor  himself  being 
“  richly  hung  with  many  chains  of  great  pearls  about  his 
neck,  and  covered  with  a  great  covering  of  raccoon- 
skins.  At  his  head  sat  a  woman,  at  his  feet  another;  on 
each  side,  sitting  upon  a  mat  upon  the  ground,  were 
ranged  his  chief  men  on  each  side  of  the  fire,  ten  in  a 
rank ;  and  behind  them  as  many  young  women,  each  with 
a  great  chain  of  white  beads  over  her  shoulders,  their 
heads  painted  in  red;  and  with  such  a  grave  and  majestic 
countenance  as  drove  me  into  admiration  to  see  such 
state  in  a  naked  savage.  He  kindly  welcomed  me  with 
good  words  and  great  platters  of  sundry  victuals,  assuring 
me  his  friendship  and  my  liberty  within  four  days.” 

Thus  day  by  day  passed  in  pleasant  discourse  with 
his  imperial  host,  who  asked  him  about  “  the  manner  of 
our  ships  and  sailing  the  seas,  the  earth  and  skies,  and 
of  our  God,”  and  who  feasted  him  not  only  with  continual 
“  platters  of  sundry  victuals,”  but  with  glowing  descrip¬ 
tions  of  his  own  vast  dominions  stretching  away  beyond 
the  rivers  and  the  mountains  to  the  land  of  the  setting 
sun.  .  .  . 

“  Thus  having  with  all  the  kindness  he  could  devise 
sought  to  content  me,  he  sent  me  home  with  four  men, 
one  that  usually  carried  my  gown  and  knapsack  after  me, 
two  others  loaded  with  bread,  and  one  to  accompany  me.” 

The  author  then  gives  a  description  of  his  journey  back 
to  Jamestown,  where  “  each  man  with  truest  signs  of  joy  ” 
welcomed  him ;  of  his  second  visit  to  Powhatan ;  of 
various  encounters  with  hostile  and  thievish  Indians;  and 
of  the  arrival  from  England  of  Captain  Nelson  in  the 
Phoenix,  April  20,  1608  —  an  event  which  “  did  ravish 
them  with  exceeding  joy.”  Late  in  the  narrative  he  makes 
his  first  reference  to  Pocahontas,  whom  he  speaks  of  as 
“  a  child  of  ten  years  old,  which  not  only  for  feature, 
countenance,  and  proportion  much  exceedeth  any  of  the 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


21 


rest  of  his  people,  but  for  wit  and  spirit  the  only  non¬ 
pareil  of  his  country.” 

After  mentioning  some  further  dealings  with  the  Ind¬ 
ians,  he  concludes  the  book  with  an  account  of  the 
preparations  for  the  return  to  England  of  Captain  Nelson 
and  his  ship ;  and  describes  those  as  remaining  as  “  being 
in  good  health,  all  our  men  well  contented,  free  from 
mutinies,  in  love  one  with  another,  and  as  we  hope  in 
a  continual  peace  with  the  Indians,  where  we  doubt  not 
but  by  God’s  gracious  assistance  and  the  Adventurers’ 
willing  minds  and  speedy  furtherance  to  so  honorable  an 
action,  in  after  times  to  see  our  nation  to  enjoy  a  country 
not  only  exceeding  pleasant  for  habitation,  but  also  very 
profitable  for  commerce  in  general,  no  doubt  pleasing  to 
Almighty  God,  honorable  to  our  gracious  sovereign,  and 
commodious  generally  to  the  whole  kingdom.” 

Thus,  with  words  of  happy  omen,  ends  the  first  book  of 
American  literature.  It  was  not  composed  as  a  literary 
effort.  It  was  meant  to  be  merely  a  budget  of  information 
for  the  public  at  home,  and  especially  for  the  London 
stockholders  of  the  Virginia  Company.  Hastily,  appar¬ 
ently  without  revision,  it  was  wrought  vehemently  by 
the  rough  hand  of  a  soldier  and  an  explorer,  in  the  pauses 
of  a  toil  that  was  both  fatiguing  and  dangerous,  and  while 
the  incidents  which  he  records  were  fresh  and  clinging  in 
his  memory.  Probably  he  thought  little  of  any  rules  of 
literary  art  as  he  wrote  this  book ;  probably  he  did  not 
think  of  writing  a  book  at  all.  Out  of  the  abundance  of 
his  materials,  glowing  with  pride  over  what  he  had  done 
in  the  great  enterprise,  eager  to  inspire  the  home-keeping 
patrons  of  the  colony  with  his  own  resolute  cheer,  and 
accustomed  for  years  to  portray  in  pithy  English  the  ad¬ 
ventures  of  which  his  life  was  fated  to  be  full,  the  bluff 
Captain  just  stabbed  his  paper  with  inken  words;  he 
composed  not'  a  book  but  a  big  letter;  he  folded  it  up, 
and  tossed  it  upon  the  deck  of  Captain  Nelson’s  depart¬ 
ing  ship. 

But  though  he  ma3^  have  had  no  expectation  of  doing 
such  a  thing,  he  wrote  a  book  that  is  not  unworthy  to  be 
the  beginning  of  English  literature  in  America.  It  has 
faults  enough,  without  doubt.  Had  it  not  these,  it  would 


22 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


have  been  too  good  for  the  place  it  occupies.  The  com¬ 
position  was  extemporaneous ;  there  appears  in  it  some 
chronic  misunderstanding  between  the  nominatives  and 
their  verbs ;  now  and  then  the  words  and  clauses  of  a 
sentence  are  jumbled  together  in  blinding  heaps;  but  in 
spite  of  all  its  crudities,  here  is  racy  English,  pure  English, 
the  sinewy,  picturesque,  and  throbbing  diction  of  the  navi¬ 
gators  and  soldiers  of  the  Elizabethan  time.  And  although 
the  materials  of  this  book  Aare  not  moulded  in  nice  pro¬ 
portion,  the  story  is  well  told.  The  man  has  an  eye  and 
a  hand  for  that  thing.  He  sees  the  essential  facts  of  a 
situation,  and  throws  the  rest  away;  and  the  business 
moves  straight  forward. —  History  of  American  Literature. 

THE  NEW  ENGLAND  WRITERS. 

Did  the  people  of  New  England  in  their  earliest  age 
begin  to  produce  a  literature?  Who  can  doubt  it?  With 
their  incessant  activity  of  brain,  with  so  much  both  of 
common  and  of  uncommon  culture  among  them,  with  in¬ 
tellectual  interests  so  lofty  and  strong,  with  so  many 
outward  occasions  to  stir  their  deepest  passions  into  the 
same  great  currents,  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  it  had 
they  indeed  produced  no  literature.  Moreover,  contrary 
to  what  is  commonly  asserted  of  them,  they  were  not 
without  a  literary  class.  In  as  large  a  proportion  to  the 
whole  population  as  was  then  the  case  in  the  mother- 
country,  there  were  in  New  England  many  men  trained 
to  the  use  of  books,  accustomed  to  express  themselves 
fluently  by  voice  and  pen,  and  not  so  immersed  in  the 
physical  tasks  of  life  as  to  be  deprived  of  the  leisure  for 
whatever  writing  they  were  prompted  to  undertake.  It 
was  a  literary  class  made  up  of  men  of  affairs,  country- 
gentlemen,  teachers,  above  all  of  clergymen ;  men  of  let¬ 
ters  who  did  not  depend  upon  letters  for  their  bread,  and 
who  thus  did  their  work  under  conditions  of  intellectual 
independence.  Nor  is  it  true  that  all  the  environments 
of  their  lives  were  unfriendly  to  literary  action;  indeed, 
for  a  certain  class  of  minds  those  environments  were 
extremely  wholesome  and  stimulating.  There  were  about 
them  many  of  the  tokens  of  the  picturesque,  romantic,  and 


MOSES  COIT  TYLER 


23 


impressive  life :  the  infinite  solitudes  of  the  wilderness,  its 
mystery,  its  peace;  the  near  presence  of  nature,  vast, 
potent,  unassailed ;  the  strange  problems  presented  to  them 
by  savage  character  and  savage  life;  their  own  escape 
from  great  cities,  from  crowds,  from  mean  competitions ; 
the  luxury  of  having  room  enough;  the  delight  of  being 
free;  the  urgent  interest  of  all  the  Protestant  world  in 
their  undertaking;  the  hopes  of  humanity  already  looking 
thither;  the  coming  to  them  of  scholars,  saints,  statesmen, 
philosophers.  Many  of  these  factors  in  the  early  colonial 
times  are  such  as  cannot  be  reached  by  statistics,  and  are 
apt  to  be  lost  by  those  who  merely  grope  on  the  surface 
of  history.  If  our  antiquarians  have  generally  missed 
this  view,  it  may  reassure  us  to  know  that  our  greatest 
literary  artists  have  not  failed  to  see  it.  “  New  England,” 
as  Hawthorne  believed,  “  was  then  in  a  state  incompar¬ 
ably  more  picturesque  than  at  present,  or  than  it  had 
been  within  the  memory  of  man.”  That,  indeed,  was  the 
beginning  of  “  the  old  colonial  day  ”  which  Longfellow  has 
pictured  to  us. 

“  When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality.” 

For  the  study  of  literature,  they  turned  with  eagerness 
to  the  ancient  classics;  read  them  freely;  quoted  them 
with  apt  facility.  Though  their  new  home  was  but  a 
province,  their  minds  were  not  provincial ;  they  had  so 
stalwart  and  chaste  a  faith  in  the  ideas  which  brought 
them  to  America  as  to  think  that  wherever  those  ideas 
were  put  into  practice,  there  was  the  metropolis.  In  the 
public  expression  of  thought  they  limited  themselves  by 
restraints  which,  though  then  prevalent  in  all  parts  of  the 
civilized  world,  now  seem  shameful  and  intolerable :  the 
printing-press  in  New  England  during  the  seventeenth 
century  was  in  chains.  The  first  instrument  of  the  craft 
and  mystery  of  printing  was  set  up  at  Cambridge  in  1639, 
under  the  auspices  of  Harvard  College;  and  for  the  sub¬ 
sequent  twenty-three  years  the  president  of  that  college 
was  in  effect  responsible  for  the  good  behavior  of  the 
terrible  machine.  His  control  of  it  did  not  prove  suf¬ 
ficiently  vigilant.  The  fears  of  the  clergy  were  excited 


24 


MOSES  C01T  TYLER 


by  the  lenity  that  had  permitted  the  escape  into  the  world 
of  certain  books  which  tended  “  to  open  the  door  of 
heresy;”  therefore,  in  1662,  two  official  licensers  were 
appointed,  without  whose  consent  nothing  was  to  be 
printed.  Even  this  did  not  make  the  world  seem  safe ; 
and  two  years  afterward  the  law  was  made  more  stringent. 
Other  licensers  were  appointed ;  excepting  the  one  at 
Cambridge  no  printing-press  was  to  be  allowed  in  the 
colony;  and  if  from  the  printing-press  that  was  allowed 
anything  should  be  printed  without  the  permission  of  the 
licensers,  the  peccant'  engine  was  to  be  forfeited  to  the 
government  and  the  printer  himself  was  to  be  forbidden 
the  exercise  of  his  profession  “  within  this  jurisdiction  for 
the  time  to  come.”  But  even  the  new  licensers  were  not 
severe  enough.  In  1667,  having  learned  that  these  officers 
had  given  their  consent  to  the  publication  of  The  Imi¬ 
tation  of  Christ ,  a  book  written  “  by  a  Popish  minister, 
wherein  is  contained  some  things  that  are  less  safe  to  be 
infused  amongst  the  people  of  this  place,”  the  authorities 
directed  that  the  book  should  be  returned  to  the  licensers 
for  “  a  more  full  revisal,”  and  that  in  the  meantime  the 
printing-press  should  stand  still.  In  the  leading  colony 
of  New  England  legal  restraints  upon  printing  were  not 
entirely  removed  until  about  twenty-one  years  before  the 
Declaration  of  Independence. 

The  chief  literary  disadvantages  of  New  England  were 
that  her  writers  lived  far  from  the  great  repositories  of 
books,  and  far  from  the  central  currents  of  the  world’s 
best  thinking;  that  the  lines  of  their  own  literary  activity 
were  few;  and  that,  though  they  nourished  their  minds 
upon  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  and  upon  the  classics  of  the 
Roman  and  Greek  literatures,  they  stood  aloof,  with  a 
sort  of  horror,  from  the  richest  and  most  exhilarating 
types  of  classic  writing  in  their  own  tongue.  In  many 
ways  their  literary  development  was  stunted  and  stiffened 
by  the  narrowness  of  Puritanism.  Nevertheless,  what 
they  lacked  in  symmetry  of  culture  and  in  range  of  literary 
movement  was  something  which  the  very  integrity  of 
their  natures  was  sure  to  compel  them,  either  in  them¬ 
selves  or  in  their  posterity,  to  acquire.  For  the  people 
of  New  England  it  must  be  said  that  in  stock,  spiritual 


ROY ALL  TYLER 


25 


and  physical,  they  were  well  started;  and  that  of  such  a 
race,  under  such  opportunities,  almost  anything  great  and 
bright  may  be  predicted.  Within  their  souls  at  that  time 
the  aesthetic  sense  was  crushed  down  and  almost  tram¬ 
pled  out  by  the  fell  tyranny  of  their  creed.  But  the 
aesthetic  sense  was  still  within  them;  and  in  pure  and 
wholesome  natures  such  as  theirs  its  emergence  was  only 
a  matter  of  normal  growth.  They  who  have  their  eyes 
fixed  in  adoration  upon  the  beauty  of  holiness  are  not  far 
from  the  sight  of  all  beauty.  It  is  not  permitted  to  us 
to  doubt  that  in  music,  in  painting,  architecture,  sculpture, 
poetry,  prose,  the  highest  art  will  be  reached,  in  some 
epoch  of  its  growth,  by  the  robust  and  versatile  race 
sprung  from  those  practical  idealists  of  the  seventeenth 
century  —  those  impassioned  seekers  after  the  invisible 
truth  and  beauty  and  goodness.  Even  in  their  times,  as 
we  shall  presently  see,  some  sparkles  and  prophecies  of 
the  destined  splendor  could  not  help  breaking  forth. —  A 
History  of  American  Literature. 


SYLER,  Royall,  an  American  dramatist,  poet 
and  journalist;  born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  July 
18,  1757;  died  at  Brattleboro,  Vt.,  August  16, 
1826.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard  College  and  a 
law-student  in  John  Adam’s  office.  He  served  for  a 
time  on  General  Benjamin  Lincoln’s  staff  in  1776,  and 
again,  in  1786,  in  the  brief  campaign  that  led  to  the 
suppression  of  Shay’s  rebellion,  in  central  and  western 
Massachusetts.  The  same  year  he  visited  New  York 
City,  in  connection  with  negotiations  in  that  affair, 
and  while  there  procured  the  production  of  his  comedy, 
The  Contrast ,  April  16,  1786,  at  the  John  Street  Thea¬ 
tre.  The  play  was  an  instant  success,  and  its  author, 


ROY ALL  TYLER 


encouraged,  produced  several  other  comedies  of  con¬ 
siderable  merit. 

In  1797  his  Algerine  Captive ;  or  the  Life  and  Ad¬ 
ventures  of  Dr.  Updike  Underhill,  Six  Years  a  Pris¬ 
oner  Among  the  Algerines,  was  published.  This 
clever  book  was  a  fictitious  memoir,  under  cover  of 
which  the  author  launched  his  humor,  satire,  wisdom, 
and  manly  indignation  at  the  foibles  of  American  so¬ 
ciety,  the  horrors  of  the  slave-trade,  etc.  It  had  a 
large  sale  and  established  the  author’s  reputation  in 
England  as  well  as  in  America.  In  1799  Tyler  re¬ 
moved  to  Vermont,  where  he  rose  to  the  Chief  Jus¬ 
ticeship  of  the  Supreme  Court  (1800-1806),  afterward 
practising  law  and  compiling  the  Reports  of  Cases  in 
the  Supreme  Court  of  Vermont. 

About  1800  Isaiah  Thomas  established  the  Farmer’s 
Repository  —  the  first  American  journal  of  belles-let¬ 
tres  and  affairs  —  and  Tyler  was  for  years  one  of  the 
brilliant  band  of  literary  men  who  made  this  little  sheet 
famous.  He  wrote  incessantly  upon  every  imaginable 
topic  —  essays,  poems,  satires,  political  squibs,  attacks 
on  French  democracy,  the  Della  Cruscan  literary  cult, 
fashionable  frivolities,  religious  hypocrisy  —  and  al¬ 
ways  to  the  unceasing  entertainment  of  his  readers. 

Tyler  was  a  scholar,  a  wit,  a  gentleman,  a  “  man  of 
the  world  ”  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term ;  a  good  citi¬ 
zen,  friend,  and  neighbor.  He  combined  all  that  was 
best  of  the  polish  and  brilliancy  of  the  last  century 
with  the  manly  virtues  and  love  of  humanity  that  were 
to  be  the  heritage  of  Americans  of  the  nineteenth  cen¬ 
tury.  A  single  extract  (a  mock  advertisement  from 
the  Farmer’s  Repository )  must  suffice  to  show  his 
erudition  and  the  playfulness  of  his  humor : 


ROY ALL  TYLER 


VARIETY  STORE. 


TO  THE  LITERATI. 

MESS.  COLON  &  SPONDEE 

WHOLESALE  DEALERS  IN 

VERSE ,  PROSE  AND  MUSIC , 

BEG  LEAVE  TO  INFORM  THE  PUBLIC 
AND  THE  LEARNED  IN  PARTICULAR  THAT 
PREVIOUS  TO  THE  ENSUING 

COMMENCEMENT 

They  purpose  to  open  a  fresh  Assortment  of 

Lexo  graphic,  Burgursdician  and  Parnassian 

GOODS 

suitable  for  the  season, 

At  the  Room  on  the  Plain,*  lately  occupied 
by  Mr.  Frederic  Wiser,  Tonsor, 

if  it  can  be  procured  — 

—  Where  they  will  expose  to  Sale 

SALUTATORY  and  Valedictory  Orations,  Syllogistic 
and  Forensic  Disputations  and  Dialogues  among  the 
living  and  the  dead  —  Hebrew  roots  and  other  simples 
—  Dead  Languages  for  living  Drones  —  Oriental  Lan¬ 
guages  with  or  without  points,  prefixes  or  suffixes  — 
Attic,  Doric,  Ionic,  and  /Eolic  Dialects,  with  the  Wabash, 
Onondaga,  and  Mohawk  Gutturals  —  v’s  added  and  dove- 


*  At  Hanover,  N.  H. 


28 


ROY ALL  TYLER 


tailed  to  their  vowels,  with  a  small  assortment  of  the 
genuine  Peloponnessian  Nasal  Twangs  —  Monologues, 
Dialogues,  Trialogues,  Tetralogues,  and  so  on  from  one 
to  twenty  logues. 

Anagrams,  Acrostics,  Anacreontics,  Chronograms,  Epi¬ 
grams,  Hudibrastics,  and  Panegyrics ;  Rebusses,  Charades, 
Puns,  and  Conundrums,  by  the  gross  or  single  dozen. 

Ether,  Mist,  Sleet,  Rain,  Snow,  Lightning,  and  Thun¬ 
der,  prepared  and  personified,  after  the  manner  of  Della 
Crusca  with  a  quantity  of  Brown  Humor,  Blue  Fear 
and  Child  Begetting  Love,  from  the  same  Manufactory ; 
with  a  Pleasing  variety  of  high-colored,  compound  Epi¬ 
thets,  well  assorted  —  Love  Letters  by  the  Ream  —  Sum¬ 
mary  Arguments,  both  Merry  and  Serious  —  Sermons, 
moral,  occasional,  or  polemical  —  Sermons  for  Texts,  and 
Texts  for  Sermons  —  Old  Orations  Scoured,  Forensics 
furbished,  Blunt  Epigrams  newly  pointed,  and  cold  Con¬ 
ferences  hashed;  with  Extemporaneous  Prayers  corrected 
a\nd  amended  —  Alliterations  artfully  allied  —  and  periods 
polished  to  perfection. 

Airs,  Canons,  Catches,  and  Cantatas  —  Fugues,  Over¬ 
tures,  and  Symphonies  for  any  number  of  Instruments 
—  Serenades  for  Nocturnal  Lovers  —  Amens  and  Halle¬ 
lujahs,  trilled,  quavered,  and  slurred  —  with  Couplets, 
Syncopations,  Minims  and  Crochet  Rests,  for  female 
voices  —  and  Solos,  with  three  parts,  for  hand-organs. 

Accidental  Deaths,  Battles,  Bloody  Murders,  Premature 
News,  Tempests,  Thunder  and  Lightning,  and  Hail-Stones, 
of  all  dimensions,  adapted  to  the  Season. 

Circles  squared,  and  Mathematical  points  divided  into 
quarters  and  half  shares. 

Serious  Cautions  against  Drunkenness,  &c.,  and  other 
coarse  Wrapping  Paper,  gratis,  to  those  who  buy  the 
smallest  article. 

^  On  hand  a  few  Tierces  of  Attic  Salt  —  Also,  Cash, 
and  the  highest  price  given  for  Raw  Wit,  for  use  of  the 
Manufactory,  or  taken  in  exchange  for  the  above  Articles. 


JOHN  TYNDALL 


29 


SYNDALL,  John,  an  Irish  physicist  and  philos¬ 
opher;  born  at  Leighton  Bridge,  near  Carlow, 
-0==^  August  21,  1820;  died  at  Haselmere,  Surrey, 
England,  December  4,  1893.  In  1847  be  became  a 
teacher  in  Queenwood  College,  and  began  original 
investigations  with  Dr.  Frankland.  In  1848  he  stud¬ 
ied  in  Germany  under  Bunsen  and  Magnus,  and,  from 
1853  until  his  death,  was  Professor  of  Natural  Phi¬ 
losophy  in  the  Royal  Institution.  He  lectured  in  the 
United  States  in  1872,  and  gave  the  proceeds  to  aid 
students  pursuing  scientific  research  in  this  country. 
Plis  published  books  are:  The  Glaciers  of  the  Alps 
(i860)  ;  Mountaineering  (1861)  ;  A  Vacation  Tour 
(1862)  ;  Heat  a  Mode  of  Motion  (1863)  ;  On  Radia¬ 
tion  (1865)  ;  Faraday  as  a  Discoverer  (1868)  ;  Dia¬ 
magnetism  and  Magne-Crystallic  Action,  and  Lectures 
on  Electrical  Phenomena  (1870)  ;  Notes  on  Light,  and 
Hours  of  Exercise  in  the  Alps  (1871)  ;  The  Forms  of 
Water  in  Clouds  and  Rivers,  Ice  and  Glaciers,  and 
Fragments  of  Science  (1871;  enlarged  ed.  1876); 
Contributions  to  Molecular  Physics  in  the  Domain  of 
Radiant  Heat  (1872)  ;  On  Sound  (3d  ed.),  and  Six 
Lectures  on  Light  (2d  ed.,  1875)  ;  Lessons  on  Elec¬ 
tricity,  delivered  in  1875-76  (Amer.  ed.,  1889)  ;  Es¬ 
says  on  the  Floating  Matter  in  the  Air,  in  Relation  to 
Putrefaction  and  Infection  (1881)  ;  New  Fragments 
(1892). 


LIMIT  OF  MATERIALISM. 

In  affirming  that  the  growth  of  the  body  is  mechanical, 
and  that  thought,  as  exercised  by  us,  has  its  correlative 
in  the  physics  of  the  brain,  I  think  the  position  of  the 
“  materialist  ”  is  stated,  as  far  as  that  position  is  a  ten- 


30 


JOHN  TYNDALL 


able  one.  I  think  the  materialist  will  be  able  finally  to 
maintain  this  position  against  all  attacks ;  but  I  do  not 
think,  in  the  present  condition  of  the  human  mind,  that 
he  can  pass  beyond  this  position.  I  do  not  think  he  is 
entitled  to  say  that  his  molecular  groupings  and  his 
molecular  motions  explain  everything.  In  reality  they 
explain  nothing.  The  utmost  he  can  affirm  is  the  asso¬ 
ciation  of  two  classes  of  phenomena,  of  whose  real  bond 
of  union  he  is  in  absolute  ignorance.  The  problem  of 
the  connection  of  body  and  soul  is  as  insoluble  in  its 
modern  form  as  it  was  in  the  prescientific  ages.  Phos¬ 
phorous  is  known  to  enter  into  the  composition  of  the 
human  brain,  and  a  trenchant  German  writer  has  ex¬ 
claimed,  “  Ohne  Phosphor,  kein  Gedanke.”  That  may 
or  may  not  be  the  case;  but  even  if  we  knew  it  to  be  the 
case,  the  knowledge  would  not  lighten  our  darkness.  On 
both  sides  of  the  zone  here  assigned  to  the  materialist 
he  is  equally  hopeless.  If  you  ask  him  whence  is  this 
“  Matter  ”  of  which  we  have  been  discoursing,  who  or 
what  divided  it  into  molecules,  who  or  what  impressed 
upon  them  this  necessity  of  running  into  organic  forms, 
he  has  no  answer.  Science  is  mute  in  reply  to  these 
questions.  But  if  the  materialist  is  confounded  and  science 
rendered  dumb,  who  else  is  prepared  with  a  solution  ? 
To  whom  has  this  arm  of  the  Lord  been  revealed?  Let 
us  lower  our  heads  and  acknowledge  our  ignorance,  priest 
and  philosopher,  one  and  all.  —  Fragments  of  Science. 

SCIENTIFIC  IMAGINATION. 

How,  then  are  those  hidden  things  to  be  revealed? 
How,  for  example,  are  we  to  lay  hold  of  the  physical 
basis  of  light,  since,  like  that  of  life  itself,  it  lies  en¬ 
tirely  without  the  domain  of  the  senses?  Philosophers 
may  be  right  in  affirming  that  we  cannot  transcend  ex¬ 
perience;  but  we  can,  at  all  events,  carry  it  a  long  way 
from  its  origin.  We  can  also  magnify,  diminish,  qualify, 
and  combine  experiences,  so  as  to  render  them  fit  for 
purposes  entirely  new.  We  are  gifted  with  the  power 
of  imagination  —  combining  what  the  Germans  call 
Anschauungsgabe  and  Einbildungskraft  —  and  by  this 


JOHN  TYNDALL 


3i 


power  we  can  lighten  the  darkness  which  surrounds  the 
world  of  the  senses.  There  are  Tories  even  in  science 
who  regard  imagination  as  a  faculty  to  be  feared  and 
avoided  rather  than  employed.  They  had  observed  its 
action  in  weak  vessels,  and  were  duly  impressed  by  its 
disasters.  But  they  might  with  equal  justice  point  to 
exploded  boilers  as  an  argument  against  the  use  of 
steam.  Bounded  and  conditioned  by  cooperant  Reason, 
imagination  becomes  the  mightiest  instrument  of  the 
physical  observer.  Newton’s  passage  from  the  falling 
apple  to  the  falling  moon  was  at  the  outset  a  leap  of 
the  imagination.  When  William  Thompson  tries  to 
place  the  ultimate  particles  of  matter  between  his  com¬ 
pass  points,  and  to  apply  them  to  a  scale  of  millimetres, 
he  is  powerfully  aided  by  this  faculty.  And  in  much 
that  has  been  recently  said  about  protoplasm  and  life, 
we  have  the  outgoings  of  the  imagination  guided  and 
controlled  by  the  known  analogies  of  science.  We  should 
still  believe  in  the  succession  of  day  and  night,  of  summer 
and  winter;  but  the  soul,  of  Force  would  be  dislodged 
from  the  universe;  causal  relations  would  disappear,  and 
with  them  that  science  which  is  now  binding  the  parts 
of  nature  to  an  organic  whole.  —  Fragments  of  Science. 

THE  COLORS  OF  THE  SKY. 

The  cloud  takes  no  note  of  the  size  on  the  part  of  the 
waves  of  asther,  but  reflects  them  all  alike.  It  exercises 
no  selective  action.  Now  the  cause  of  this  may  be  that 
the  cloud  particles  are  so  large  in  comparison  with  the 
size  of  the  waves  of  aether  as  to  reflect  them  all  indif¬ 
ferently.  A  broad  cliff  reflects  an  Atlantic  roller  as 
easily  as  a  ripple  produced  by  a  sea-bird’s  wing;  and  in 
the  presence  of  large  reflecting  surfaces  the  existing 
differences  of  magnitude  disappear.  But  supposing  the 
reflecting  particles,  instead  of  being  very  large,  to  be  very 
small,  in  comparison  with  the  size  of  the  waves.  In  this 
case,  instead  of  the  whole  wave  being  fronted  and  in  great 
part  thrown  back,  a  small  portion  only  is  shivered  off. 
The  great  mass  of  the  wave  passes  over  such  a  particle 
without  reflection.  Scatter,  then,  a  handful  of  such  for- 


32 


JOHN  TYNDALL 


eign  particles  in  our  atmosphere,  and  set  imagination  to 
watch  their  action  upon  the  solar  waves.  .  .  .  An 
undue  fraction  of  the  smaller  waves  is  scattered  by  the 
particles,  and,  as  a  consequence,  in  the  scattered  light, 
blue  will  be  the  predominant  color.  .  .  . 

We  have  here  a  case  presented  to  the  imagination, 
and,  assuming  the  undulatory  theory  to  be  a  reality,  we 
have,  I  think,  fairly  reasoned  our  way  to  the  conclusion 
that  were  the  particles,  small  in  comparison  to  the  size 
of  the  aether  waves,  sown  in  our  atmosphere,  the  light 
scattered  by  those  particles  would  be  exactly  such  as  we 
observe  in  our  azure  skies.  .  .  . 

Let  us  now  turn  our  attention  to  the  light  which 
passes  unscattered  among  the  particles.  How  must  it 
be  finally  affected?  By  its  successive  collisions  with 
the  particles  the  white  light  is  more  and  more  robbed 
of  its  shorter  waves;  it  therefore  loses  more  and  more 
of  its  due  proportion  of  blue.  The  result  may  be  antic¬ 
ipated.  The  transmitted  light,  where  short  distances  are 
involved,  will  appear  yellowish.  But  as  the  sun  sinks 
toward  the  horizon  the  atmospheric  distances  increase, 
and  consequently  the  number  of  scattering  particles.  They 
abstract  in  succession  the  violet,  the  indigo,  the  blue,  and 
even  disturb  the  proportions  of  green.  The  transmitted 
light  under  such  circumstances  must  pass  from  yellow 
through  orange  to  red.  This  is  exactly  what  we  find  in 
nature.  Thus,  while  the  reflected  light  gives  us  at  noon 
the  deep  azure  of  the  Alpine  skies,  the  transmitted  light 
gives  us  at  sunset  the  warm  crimson  of  the  Alpine  snows. 
—  Fragments  of  Science. 

FREEDOM  OF  INQUIRY. 

It  is  not  to  the  point  to  say  that  the  views  of  Lucretius 
and  Bruno,  of  Darwin  and  Spencer,  may  be  wrong.  Here 
I  should  agree  with  you,  deeming  it  indeed  certain  that 
these  views  will  undergo  modification.  But  the  point  is, 
that,  whether  right  or  wrong,  we  claim  the  right  to  dis¬ 
cuss  them.  For  science,  however,  no  exclusive  claim  is 
here  made ;  you  are  not  urged  to  erect  it  into  an  idol. 
The  inexorable  advance  of  man’s  understanding  in  the 


TYRT2EUS 


33 


path  of  knowledge,  and  those  unquenchable  claims  of  his 
moral  and  emotional  nature  which  the  understanding  can 
never  satisfy,  are  here  equally  set  forth.  The  world  em¬ 
braces  not  only  a  Newton,  but  a  Shakspeare  —  not  only 
a  Boyle,  but  a  Raphael  —  not  only  a  Kant,  but  a  Bee¬ 
thoven  —  not  only  a  Darwin,  but  a  Carlyle.  Not  in  each 
of  these,  but  in  all,  is  human  nature  whole.  They  are 
not  opposed,  but  supplementary  —  not  mutually  exclusive, 
but  reconcilable.  And  if,  unsatisfied  with  them  all,  the 
human  mind,  with  the  yearning  of  a  pilgrim  for  his  dis¬ 
tant  home,  will  still  turn  to  the  mystery  from  which  it 
has  emerged,  seeking  so  to  fashion  it  as  to  give  unity  to 
thought  and  faith;  so  long  as  this  is  done,  not  only  with¬ 
out  intolerance  or  bigotry  of  any  kind,  but  with  the  en¬ 
lightened  recognition  that  ultimate  fixity  of  conception 
is  here  unattainable,  and  that  each  succeeding  age  must 
be  held  free  to  fashion  the  mystery  in  accordance  with  its 
own  needs  —  then,  casting  aside  all  the  restrictions  of 
materialism,  I  would  affirm  this  to  be  a  field  for  the  no¬ 
blest  exercise  of  what,  in  contrast  with  the  knozving  fac¬ 
ulties,  may  be  called  the  creative  faculties  of  man.  Here, 
however,  I  touch  a  theme  too  great  for  me  to  handle,  but 
which  will  assuredly  be  handled  by  the  loftiest  minds 
when  you  and  I,  like  streaks  of  morning  cloud,  shall  have 
melted  into  the  infinite  azure  of  the  past. 


YRTTEUS,  a  Greek  poet;  born  in  the  earlier 
part  of  the  seventh  century  b.c.  He  was  the 
second  in  order  of  time  of  the  Greek  elegiac 
poets,  and  is  perhaps  the  most  renowned  martial  poet 
of  all  times.  The  information  which  has  come  down 
to  us  respecting  this  remarkable  man  is  for  the  most 
part  legendary  and  unreliable.  It  is  related  that  the 
Spartans,  disheartened  at  the  success  of  their  enemies 
Vol.  XXIII. — 3 


34 


TYRT7EUS 


at  the  beginning  of  the  second  Messenian  war,  con¬ 
sulted  the  Delphian  oracle,  and  were  directed  to  ask 
a  leader  from  Athens ;  that  the  Athenians,  fearing  lest 
the  Lacedaemonians  should  extend  their  dominion  in 
the  Peloponnesus,  sent  them  Tyrtaeus,  a  lame  school¬ 
master,  a  native  of  Aphidnae,  in  Attica;  but  that  this 
man  whom  they  had  sent,  as  it  were  in  mockery,  so 
roused  and  maintained  the  courage  of  the  Spartans  by 
his  warlike  songs  that  in  the  end  they  obtained  a  com¬ 
plete  victory  over  their  dangerous  foes.  It  is,  of 
course,  impossible  to  say  what  amount  of  truth  may 
be  contained  in  the  above  legend ;  but  it  is  probable 
that  Tyrtaeus  was  by  birth  a  stranger,  that  he  became 
a  Spartan  by  the  subsequent  recompense  of  citizen¬ 
ship  conferred  upon  him,  that  he  was  an  impressive 
and  efficacious  minstrel,  and  that  he  was  moreover 
something  of  a  wise  and  influential  statesman,  being 
able  not  only  to  animate  the  courage  of  the  warrior  on 
the  field  of  battle,  but  also  to  soothe  those  discontents 
and  troubles  which  usually  prevail  among  the  citizens 
in  time  of  war.  Grote  calls  him  an  inestimable  ally 
of  the  Lacedaemonians  during  their  second  struggles 
with  the  Messenians ;  and  the  few  indisputable  facts 
respecting  both  the  first  and  the  second  war  have  been 
gathered  from  the  extant  fragments  of  his  poems. 
The  poems  of  Tyrtaeus  were  of  two  kinds ;  the  first 
were  elegies,  in  which  the  warrior  was  exhorted  to 
bravery  against  the  foe,  and  inspirited  with  descrip¬ 
tions  of  the  glory  of  fighting  for  one’s  native  land ; 
the  other  sort  were  composed  in  more  rapid  measures, 
and  intended  as  marching-songs,  to  be  accompanied 
with  the  flute.  The  influence  of  these  poems  on  the 
minds  of  the  Spartan  youth  continued  to  be  very  pow¬ 
erful  long  after  the  poet  himself  had  passed  away. 


TYRTJEUS 


35 


The  fragments  which  we  possess  of  these  famous  songs 
and  elegies  will  be  found  in  Gaisford’s  Poetce  Minor es 
Grceci.  They  have  also  been  edited  separately  by  Klotz 
(1764)  and  by  Stock  (1819).  Another  good  edition 
of  the  text  of  Tyrtseus  is  that  of  Bergk  in  his  Poetce 
Lyrici  Greed. 

MARTIAL  ELEGY. 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 

In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land  ! 

But  O,  what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 

A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country’s  fields ! 

The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 

An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam, 

His  little  ones  shall,  weeping,  with  him  go, 

And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe; 

While,  scorned  and  scowled  upon  by  every  face, 

They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed  !  dishonoring  manhood’s  form ! 

All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him;  affliction’s  storm 
Shall  blind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 

Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 

He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant’s  name, 

And  children  like  himself  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  father’s  land, 

And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand, 

To  save  our  children.  Fight  ye,  side  by  side, 

And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride  ! 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  the  unequal  fight, 

Whose  limbs  are  nerved  no  more  with  buoyant  might ! 
Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unblessed!) 

To  welter  in  the  combat’s  foremost  thrust, 

His  hoary  head  dishevelled  in  the  dust, 


36 


ALEXANDER  FRASER  TYTLER 


And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare  ! 

But  youth’s  fair  form,  though  fall’n,  is  ever  fair; 

And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 

The  hero  boy  that  dies  in  blooming  years  ! 

In  man’s  regret  he  lives,  and  woman’s  tears : 

More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far 

For  having  perished  in  the  front  of  war. 

—  Translation  of  Thomas  Campbell. 

THE  HERO. 

When  falling  in  the  van  he  life  must  yield, 

An  honor  to  his  sire,  his  town,  his  state  — 

His  breast  oft  mangled  through  his  circling  shield, 

And  gashed  in  front  through  all  his  armor’s  plate  — 

Him  young  and  old  together  mourn :  and  then 
His  city  swells  his  funeral’s  sad  array; 

His  tomb,  his  offspring,  are  renowned  ’mongst  men  — 
His  children’s  children,  to  the  latest  day. 

His  glory  or  his  name  shall  never  die, 

Though  ’neath  the  ground,  h,e  deathless  shall  remain, 

Whom  fighting  steadfastly,  with  courage  high, 

For  country  and  for  children,  Mars  hath  slain. 

—  Translation  for  Fraser’s  Magazine. 


SYTLER,  Alexander  Fraser,  a  Scottish  jurist, 
historian  and  essayist ;  born  at  Edinburgh, 
October  15,  1747;  died  there,  January  5,  1813. 
From  1780  to  1800  he  was  Professor  of  Civil  History 
in  the  University  of  Edinburgh;  in  1790  became  Judge 
Advocate  of  Scotland;  in  1802  was  raised  to  the  Bench 
as  Lord  Woodhouselee,  and  was  made  Lord  Justiciary 
in  1811.  He  was  the  author  of  several  legal  treatises; 


ALEXANDER  FRASER  TYTLER 


37 


of  Lectures  on  History ,  of  Memoirs  of  Henry  Home 
of  Karnes ,  and  of  the  Elements  of  General  History, 
Ancient  and  Modern.  He  also  published  an  Essay 
on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Petrarch,  with  transla¬ 
tions  of  some  of  his  sonnets,  and  an  Essay  on  the 
Principles  of  Translation.  To  periodicals  he  contrib¬ 
uted  several  papers  after  the  manner  of  the  Specta¬ 
tor. 


AN  OVER-ECONOMICAL  WIFE. 

I  am  a  middle-aged  man,  possessed  of  a  moderate  in¬ 
come  arising  chiefly  from  the  profits  of  an  office  of  which 
the  emolument  is  more  than  sufficient  to  compensate 
the  degree  of  labor  with  which  the  discharge  of  its  duties 
is  attended.  About  my  forty-fifth  year  I  became  tired 
of  the  bachelor  state ;  and  taking  the  hint  from  some 
little  twinges  of  the  gout,  I  began  to  think  it  was  full 
time  for  me  to  look  out  for  an  agreeable  help-mate.  The 
last  of  the  juvenile  tastes  which  forsakes  a  man  is  his 
admiration  of  youth  and  beauty;  and  I  own  I  was  so  far 
from  being  insensible  to  these  attractions  that'  I  felt  my¬ 
self  sometimes  tempted  to  play  the  fool,  and  marry  for 
love.  I  had  sense  enough,  however,  to  resist  this  inclina¬ 
tion,  and  in  my  choice  of  a  wife  to  sacrifice  rapture  and 
romance  to  the  prospect  of  ease  and  comfort. 

I  wedded  the  daughter  of  a  country  gentleman  of 
small  fortune;  a  lady  much  about  my  own  time  of  life, 
who  bore  the  character  of  a  discreet,  prudent  woman, 
who  was  a  stranger  to  fashionable  folly  and  dissipation 
of  every  kind,  and  whose  highest  merit  was  that'  of  an 
excellent  housewife.  I  was  not  deceived  in  the  idea  I 
had  formed  of  my  wife’s  character.  She  is  a  perfect 
paragon  of  prudence  and  discretion.  Her  moderation  is 
exemplary  in  the  highest  degree ;  and  as  to  economy,  she 
is  all  that  I  expected  —  and  a  great  deal  more,  too. 

•  •»•••• 

Alas !  how  little  do  we  know  what  is  for  our  good ! 
Like  the  poor  gentleman  who  killed  himself  by  taking 


38 


ALEXANDER  FRASER  TYTLER 


physic  when  he  was  in  health,  I  wanted  to  be  happier  than 
I  was,  and  I  have  made  myself  miserable. 

My  wife’s  ruling  passion  is  the  care  of  futurity.  She 
had  not  been  married  above  a  month  before  she  found 
my  system  —  which  was  to  enjoy  the  present  —  was  totally 
inconsistent  with  those  provident  plans  she  had  formed 
in  the  view  of  a  variety  of  future  contingencies  which, 
if  but  barely  possible,  she  looks  upon  as  absolutely 
certain.  .  .  . 

In  accomplishing  this  economical  reformation  my  wife 
displayed  no  small  address.  She  began  by  giving  me 
frequent  hints  of  the  necessity  there  was  of  cutting  off 
all  superfluous  expenses ;  and  frequently  admonished  me 
that  it  was  better  to  save  while  our  family  was  small  than 
to  retrench  when  it  grew  larger.  When  she  perceived 
that  this  argument  had  very  little  force  (as  it  grew 
every  day  weaker),  and  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
by  general  admonition,  she  found  it  necessary  to  come  to 
particulars.  She  endeavored  to  convince  me  that  I  was 
cheated  in  every  article  of  my  family  expenditure.  .  .  . 

This  I  found  was  but  a  prelude  to  a  more  serious  at¬ 
tack  ;  and  the  battery  was  levelled  at  a  point  where  I  was 
but  too  vulnerable.  I  never  went  out  to  ride  but  I  found 
my  poor  spouse  in  tears  at  my  return.  She  had  an  uncle, 
it  seems,  who  broke  a  collar-bone  by  a  fall  from  his  horse. 
My  pointers,  stretched  upon  the  hearth,  were  never  beheld 
by  her  without  uneasiness.  They  brought  to  mind  a  third 
cousin  who  lost  a  finger  by  the  bursting  of  a  fowling- 
piece  ;  and  she  had  a  sad  presentiment  that  my  passion 
for  sport  might  make  her  one  day  the  most  miserable  of 
women  “  Sure,  my  dear,”  she  would  say,  “  you  would 
not  for  the  sake  of  a  trifling  gratification  to  yourself  ren¬ 
der  your  wife  constantly  unhappy !  Yet  I  must  be  so 
while  you  keep  those  vicious  horses  and  nasty  curs.” 
What  could  I  do?  A  man  would  not  choose  to  pass  for  a 
barbarian. 


Good  claret  —  which  I  have  long  been  accustomed  to 
consider  as  a  panacea  for  all  disorders  —  my  wife  looks 
upon  as  little  better  than  a  slow  poison.  She  is  convinced 


PATRICK  FRASER  TYTLER 


39 


of  its  pernicious  effects  both  on  my  purse  and  constitu¬ 
tion,  and  recommends  to  me,  for  the  sake  of  both,  some 
brewed  stuff  of  her  own,  which  she  dignifies  with  the  name 
of  wine,  but  which  to  me  seems  nothing  but  ill-fermented 
vinegar.  She  tells  me  with  much  apparent  satisfaction 
how  she  has  passed  her  currant-wine  for  Cape,  and  her 
gooseberry  for  champagne ;  but  for  my  part  I  never  taste 
them  without  feeling  very  disagreeable  effects ;  and  I  once 
drank  half  a  bottle  of  her  champagne,  which  gave  me  a 
colic  for  a  week. 

In  the  matter  of  victuals  I  am  doomed  to  still  greater 
mortification.  Here  my  wife’s  frugality  is  displayed  in  a 
most  remarkable  manner.  As  everything  is  bought  when 
at  the  lowest  price,  she  lays  in  during  the  summer  all  her 
stores  for  the  winter.  For  six  months  we  live  upon  salt 
provisions,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  on  fly-blown  lamb 
and  stale  mutton.  If  a  joint  is  roasted  one  day,  it  is 
served  cold  the  next,  and  hashed  on  the  day  following. 
All  poultry  is  contraband.  Fish,  unless  salt  herrings  and 
dried  ling,  when  got  at  a  bargain  —  I  am  never  allowed 
to  taste. —  The  Lounger,  April  15,  1780. 


SYTLER,  Patrick  Fraser,  a  Scottish  biog¬ 
rapher  and  historian ;  born  at  Edinburgh,  Au- 
gust  30,  1791 ;  died  at  Malvern,  England,  De¬ 
cember  24,  1849.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Scottish 
bar  in  1813,  practiced  for  several  years,  but  ultimately 
devoted  himself  to  authorship.  His  principal  works 
are :  Life  of  James  Crichton  of  Cluny ,  commonly 
called  the  Admirable  Crichton  (1819)  ;  Life  of  John 
Wycliffe  (1826)  ;  History  of  Scotland  (9  vols.,  1828- 
42);  Lives  of  Scottish  Worthies  (1831);  Historical 
View  of  the  Progress  of  Discovery  on  the  More  North¬ 
ern  Coasts  of  America  (1832);  Life  of  Sir  Walter 


40 


PATRICK  FRASER  TYTLER 


Raleigh  (1833);  Life  of  Henry  VIII.  (1837);  Eng¬ 
land  Under  the  Reigns  of  Edward  VI.  and  Mary 
(1839).  1844  a  pension  of  £ 200  a  year  was  award¬ 

ed  to  him  for  eminent  literary  services. 

THE  BETRAYAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  WILLIAM  WALLACE. 

The  only  man  in  Scotland  who  had  steadily  refused 
submission  was  Wallace;  and  the  King  [Edward  I.],  with 
that  inveterate  cruelty  and  unbroken  perseverance  which 
marked  his  conduct  to  his  enemies,  now  used  every  possi¬ 
ble  means  to  hunt  him  down,  and  become  master  of  his 
person.  He  had  already  set  a  large  sum  upon  his  head; 
he  gave  strict  orders  to  his  captains  and  governors  in 
Scotland  to  be  constantly  on  the  alert;  and  he  now  care¬ 
fully  sought'  out  those  Scotsmen  who  were  enemies  to 
Wallace,  and  bribed  them  to  discover  and  betray  him. 
For  this  purpose  he  commanded  Sir  John  de  Mowbray, 
a  Scottish  knight  at  his  court,  and  who  seems  at  this  time 
to  have  risen  in  great  favor  and  trust  with  Edward,  to 
carry  with  him  into  Scotland  Ralph  de  Haliburton,  one 
of  the  prisoners  lately  taken  at  Stirling.  Haliburton  was 
ordered  to  co-operate  with  the  other  Scotsmen  who  were 
then  engaged  in  the  attempt  to  seize  Wallace,  and  Mow¬ 
bray  was  to  watch  how  this  base  person  conducted  him¬ 
self. 

What  were  the  particular  measures  adopted  by  Hali¬ 
burton,  or  with  whom  he  co-operated,  it  is  now  impossible 
to  determine;  but  it  is  certain  that  soon  after  this  Wal¬ 
lace  was  taken  and  betra)^ed  by  Sir  John  Menteith,  a 
Scottish  baron  of  high  rank.  Perhaps  we  are  to  trace 
this  infamous  transaction  to  a  family  feud.  At  the  battle 
of  Falkirk,  Wallace,  who  on  account  of  his  overbearing 
conduct  had  never  been  popular  with  the  Scottish  nobility, 
opposed  the  pretensions  of  Sir  John  Stewart  of  Bonkill, 
when  this  baron  contended  for  the  chief  command.  In 
that  disastrous  defeat,  Sir  John  Stewart,  with  the  flower 
of  his  followers,  was  surrounded  and  slain ;  and  it  is  said 
that  Sir  John  Menteith,  his  uncle,  never  forgave  Wallace 
for  making  good  his  own  retreat,  without  attempting  a 


PATRICK  FRASER  TYTLER 


4i 
l 

rescue.  By  whatever  motive  he  was  actuated,  Menteith 
succeeded  in  discovering  the  retreat  of  Wallace,  through 
the  treacherous  information  of  a  servant  who  waited  on 
him,  and  having  invaded  the  house  by  night,  seized  Wal¬ 
lace  in  his  bed,  and  instantly  delivered  him  to  Edward. 
His  fate,  as  was  to  be  expected,  was  soon  decided ;  but 
the  circumstances  of  refined  cruelty  and  torment  which 
attended  his  execution  reflect  an  indelible  stain  upon  the 
character  of  Edward ;  and  were  they  not  stated  by  English 
historians  themselves,  could  scarcely  be  believed. 

Having  been  carried  to  London,  he  was  brought  with 
much  pomp  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  there  arraigned  for 
treason.  A  crown  of  laurel  was  placed  in  mockery  upon 
his  head,  because  he  had  been  heard  to  boast  that  he  de¬ 
served  to  wear  a  crown  in  that  Hall.  Sir  Peter  Mallone, 
the  King’s  Justice,  then  impeached  him  as  a  traitor  to  the 
King  of  England,  as  having  burned  the  villages  and  ab¬ 
beys,  stormed  the  castle,  slain  and  tortured  the  liege  sub¬ 
jects  of  his  master,  the  King.  Wallace  indignantly  and 
truly  repelled  the  charge  of  treason,  as  he  had  never  sworn 
fealty  to  Edward ;  but  to  the  other  articles  of  accusation 
he  pleaded  no  defence.  They  were  notorious,  and  he  was 
condemned  to  death. 

The  sentence  was  executed  on  August  23,  1305.  Dis¬ 
crowned  and  chained,  he  was  now  dragged  at  the  tails  of 
horses  through  the  streets  to  the  foot  of  a  high  gallows 
placed  at  the  elms  of  Smithfield.  After  being  hanged, 
but  not  to  death  —  he  was  cut  down,  yet  breathing;  his 
bowels  were  taken  out  and  burned  before  his  face.  His 
head  was  then  stricken  off,  and  his  body  divided  into  four 
quarters.  The  head  was  placed  on  a  pole  on  London 
Bridge;  his  right  arm  above  the  bridge  at  Newcastle;  his 
left  arm  was  sent  to  Berwick;  his  right  foot  and  limb  to 
Perth ;  and  his  left  quarter  to  Aberdeen.  “  These,”  says 
an  old  English  historian,  “were  the  trophies  of  their  fa¬ 
vorite  hero  which  the  Scots  had  now  to  contemplate,  in¬ 
stead  of  his  banners  and  gonfalons  which  they  had  once 
proudly  followed.” 

But  he  might  have  added  that  they  were  trophies  more 
glorious  than  the  richest  banner  that  had  ever  been  borne 
before  him;  and  if  Wallace  had  already  been,  for  his  day 


42 


PATRICK  FRASER  TYTLER 


and  romantic  character,  the  idol  of  his  people  —  if  they 
had  long  regarded  him  as  the  only  man  who  had  asserted, 
throughout  every  change  of  circumstance,  the  independ¬ 
ence  of  his  country  —  now  that  the  mutilated  limbs  of  the 
martyr  to  liberty  were  brought  among  them,  it  may  well 
be  conceived  how  deep  and  inextinguishable  were  their 
feelings  of  pity  and  revenge. —  History  of  Scotland. 


u 


j^DALL,  Nicholas,  an  English  dramatist;  born 
at  Hampshire  in  1504;  died  at  Westminster, 
December  23,  1556.  He  was  educated  at  Ox¬ 
ford.  From  1534  to  1543  he  was  master  at  Eton.  In 
1 555  he  became  master  of  Westminster  School.  He 
was  known  as  a  severe  schoolmaster;  but  he  wrote 
several  plays  for  his  pupils,  one  of  which,  Ralph  Rois¬ 
ter  Doister ,  is  the  earliest  specimen  of  English  com¬ 
edy.  It  was  written  before  1551,  and  it  marks  the 
transition  from  the  mysteries  and  interludes  of  the 
Middle  Ages  to  the  comedies  of  modern  times.  The 
play  is  divided  into  five  acts,  and  the  plot  is  amusing 
and  well  constructed.  The  characters  are  of  the  mid¬ 
dle  class. 


FROM  “  ROISTER  DOISTER.” 


Mathew  Merygreke.  Christian  Custance.  Trist 

Trusty. 


M.  Mery . —  Custance  and  Trustie  both,  I  doe  you  here 
well  finde. 

C.  Custance. —  Ah,  Mathew  Merygreke,  ye  haue  vsed 
me  well. 

M.  Mery. —  Nowe  for  altogether  ye  must  your  answere 
tell. 


(43) 


44 


NICHOLAS  UDALL 


Will  ye  have  this  man,  woman?  or  else  will  ye  not? 

Else  will  he  come  neuer  bore  so  brymme  nor  tost  so  hot. 
Trist  and  Cu. —  But  why  joyn  ye  with  him? 

T.  Trusty. —  For  mirth. 

C.  Custance. —  Or  else  in  sadnesse. 

M.  Mery. —  The  more  fond  of  you  both  hardly  yat  mater 
gesse. 

Tristram. —  Lo,  how  say  ye  dame  ? 

M.  Mery. —  Why  do  ye  think  dame  Custance 

That  in  this  wowyng  I  haue  ment  ought  but  pastance  ? 

C.  Custance. —  Much  things  ye  spake,  I  wote,  to  main- 
taine  his  dotage. 

M.  Mery. —  But  well  might  ye  iudge  I  spake  it  all  in 
mockage  ! 

For  why ?  Is  Roister  Doister  a  fitte  husband  for  you? 

T.  Trusty. —  I  dare  say  ye  neuer  thought  it. 

M.  Mery. —  No,  to  God  I  vow. 

And  dyd  not  I  knowe  afore  of  the  infurance 
Betweene  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  and  Christian  Custance? 
And  dyd  not  I  for  the  nonce,  by  my  conueyance, 

Reade  his  letter  in  a  wrong  sense  for  daliance? 

That  if  you  coulde  haue  take  it  vp  at  the  first  bounde, 

We  should  thereat  such  a  sporte  and  pastime  haue  founde. 
That  all  the  whole  towne  should  haue  ben  the  merrier. 

C.  Custance. —  I’ll  ake  your  heades  both,  I  was  neuer 
werier, 

Nor  neuer  more  vexte  since  the  first  day  I  was  borne. 

T.  Trusty. —  But  very  well  I  wist  he  here  did  all  in 
scorne. 

C.  Custance. —  But  I  feared  thereof  to  take  dishonestie. 
M.  Mery. —  This  should  both  haue  made  sport,  and 
shewed  your  honestie, 

And  Goodlucke  I  dare  sweare,  your  wit'te  therein  would 
low. 

T.  Trusty. —  Yea,  being  no  worse  than  we  know  it  to 
be  now. 

M.  Mery. —  And  nothing  yet  to  late,  for  when  I  come 
to  him, 

Hither  will  he  repair  with  a  sheepes  looke  full  grim, 

By  plaine  force  and  violence  to  drive  you  to  yelde. 


NICHOLAS  UDALL 


45 


C.  Custance. —  If  ye  two  bidde  me,  we  will  with  him 
pitch  a  fielde, 

I  and  my  maids  together. 

M.  Mery. —  Let  vs  see,  be  bolde. 

C.  Custance. —  Ye  shall  see  womens  warre. 

T.  Trusty. —  That  fight  wil  I  behold. 

M.  Mery. —  If  occasion  feme,  takyng  his  parte  full 
brim 

I  will  strike  at  you,  but  the  rappe  shall  light  on  him 
When  we  first  appeare. 

C.  Custance. —  Then  will  I  runne  away. 

As  though  I  were  afeared. 

T.  Trusty. —  Do  you  that  part  wel  play 

And  I  will  sue  for  peace. 

M.  Mery. —  And  I  will  set  him  on. 

Then  wil  he  looke  as  fierce  as  a  Cotssold  lyon. 

T.  Trusty. —  But  when  gost  thou  for  him? 

M.  Mery. —  That  do  I  very  no  we 

C.  Custance. —  Ye  shal  find  vs  here. 

M.  Mery. —  Wel  God  haue  mercy  on  you.  [Exit. 

T.  Trusty. —  There  is  no  cause  of  feare,  the  least  boy 
in  the  streete. 

C.  Custance. —  Nay,  the  least  girle  I  haue  will  make 
him  take  his  feete. 

But  hearke,  me  thinke  they  make  preparation. 

T.  Trusty. —  No  force  it  will  be  a  good  recreation. 

C.  Custance. —  I  will  stand  within,  and  steppe  forth 
speedily. 

And  so  make  as  though  I  ranne  away  dreadfully. 

Much  of  the  language  of  Roister  Doister  is  in  long 
and  irregularly  measured  rhyme,  of  which  a  specimen 
may  be  given  from  a  speech  of  Dame  Custance  re¬ 
specting  the  difficulty  of  preserving  a  good  reputation : 

Lord,  how  necessary  it  is  now  of  days 

That  each  body  live  uprightly  all  manner  ways, 

For  let  never  so  little  a  gap  be  open, 

And  be  sure  of  this,  the  worst  shall  be  spoken. 

How  innocent  stand  I  in  this  for  deed  or  thought, 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


40 

And  yet  see  what  mistrust  towards  me  it  hath  wrought, 
But  thou,  Lord,  knowest  all  folks’  thoughts  and  eke  in¬ 
tents, 

And  thou  art  the  deliverer  of  all  innocents. 


native  town,  studied  law,  and  practiced  in  Stuttgart, 
where  he  was  connected  with  the  Ministry  of  Justice. 
In  1819  he  became  a  member  of  the  Wurtemberg  As¬ 
sembly.  He  was  Professor  of  German  Language  and 
Literature  at  Tubingen  from  1830  to  1833.  He  re¬ 
signed  the  professorship  to  take  more  active  part  in 
the  Diet  as  a  liberal  leader,  but  withdrew  in  1839.  In 
1848  he  became  a  member  of  the  Frankfort  Assembly. 
He  wrote  poetry  which  appeared  in  periodicals  as 
early  as  1806.  His  works  include:  Gedichte  (1815)  ; 
the  dramas  Ernst  von  Schwaben  and  Ludwig  der 
Bayer  (1817-19;  3d  ed.,  1863)  ;  Alte  hoch  und  niedcr 
dents che  Volkslieder  (1844-45)  J  and  Schriften  zur 
Geschichte  der  Dichtung  und  Sage  (8  vols.,  1865-73). 
His  poems  have  been  translated  by  Longfellow,  by 
Alexander  Platt  (1844),  and  his  Songs  and  Ballads 
by  W.  W.  Skeat  (1864). 

A  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

Hast  thou  the  castle  seen, 

That  tov/ers  near  the  sea? 

In  golden,  rosy  sheen 
The  clouds  above  it  flee. 


MIL  AND,  Johann  Ludwig,  a  German  poet 


born  at  Tubingen,  April  26,  1787;  died  there 
November  13,  1862.  He  was  educated  in  his 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


47 


Methinks  it'  fain  would  bend 
Down  o’er  the  crystal  main, 

Methinks  it  fain  would  rend 
The  golden  clouds  in  twain. 

“  Yes,  I  have  seen  it  oft, 

That  castle  on  the  strand, 

The  silver  moon  aloft, 

And  fogs  upon  the  land.” 

Did  wind  and  Ocean’s  wave 

Breathe  forth  refreshing  sound? 

And  in  those  halls  above, 

Did  harp  and  song  resound? 

“  The  winds,  the  billows  all 
In  deepest  stillness  slept, 

I  heard  within  that  hall 

A  song  of  wail,  and  wept.” 

And  sawest  thou  up  there 
The  monarch  and  his  queen? 

The  waving  mantles’  glare? 

The  crown  and  jewels’  sheen? 

With  rapture  led  they  none? 

No  gentle  maiden  fair, 

In  beauty  like  the  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair? 

“  I  saw  them  pacing  slow, 

No  crown  its  pomp  displayed, 

They  wept  in  weeds  of  woe ; 

I  saw  no  lovely  maid.” 

—  Translation  of  Alfred  Baskerville. 

THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 
Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet’s  call; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 


48 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


And  cries,  ’mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

“  Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  ” 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 

The  house’s  oldest  seneschal, 

Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall; 

They  call  it  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord :  “  This  glass  to  praise, 
Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal !  ” 

The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand  obeys, 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light: 

“  This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-sprite; 

She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farezvell  then,  O  Luck  of  Edenhall! 

{‘  ’Twas  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 

Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly; 
And,  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 

Kling !  klang !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  ” 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 

Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild, 

Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder’s  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“  For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right, 

Kling !  klang !  —  with  a  harder  blow  than  all 
Will  I  try  thy  luck  at  Edenhall !  ” 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 

Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall; 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHL  AND 


49 


And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start, 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 

With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword ; 

He  in  the  night  has  scaled  the  wall, 

Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hands  the  crystal  tall, 

The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 

The  graybeard  in  the  desert  hall, 

He  seeks  his  Lord’s  burnt  skeleton, 

He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin’s  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“  The  stone  wall,”  saith  he,  “  doth  fall  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall; 

Glass  in  this  earth’s  Luck  and  Pride; 

In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  ” 

—  Translation  of  Longfellow. 

THE  PASSAGE. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 

Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave; 

And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 

Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  the  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried  — 

One  with  all  a  father’s  truth, 

One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought. 

And  his  grave  in  silence  sought; 

But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 


Vol.  XXIII.— 4 


50 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


So  whene’er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o’er  me. 
Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 

But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend? 

Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 

Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee, — 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

—  Translation  of  Longfellow. 

a  mother’s  grave. 

A  grave,  oh,  Mother,  has  been  dug  for  thee 
Within  a  still,  to  thee,  a  well-known  place. 

A  shadow,  all  its  own,  above  shall  be, 

And  flowers,  its  threshold,  too,  shall  ever  grace. 

And,  even,  as  thou  died’st,  so  in  thy  urn 

Thou’lt  lie  unconscious  of  both  joy  and  smart; 
And,  daily,  to  my  thoughts  shalt  thou  return, 

I  dig,  for  thee,  this  grave  within  my  heart. 

—  Translation  of  Frederick  W.  Ricord. 

GIANTS  AND  DWARFS. 

From  her  father’s  lofty  castle  upon  the  mountain  side, 
One  day  into  the  valley  the  giant’s  daughter  hied. 

A  plough  and  yoke  of  oxen  she  happened  there  to  find, 
And  a  peasant  who  contentedly  was  trudging  on  behind. 
Giants  and  dwarfs ! 

The  oxen,  plough  and  peasant  to  her  seemed  very  small, 
So  she  took  them  in  her  apron  to  the  castle,  one  and  all. 
“What  have  you  there,  my  daughter?”  said  the  giant, 
turning  pale. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


5i 


“  Some  pretty  playthings,  papa,  that  I  found  down  in  the 
vale.” 

Giants  and  dwarfs ! 

“  Pick  up  your  pretty  playthings,  my  dear,  and  take  them 
back, 

Or  else  some  day  our  larder  its  stock  of  food  may  lack ! 

The  dwarfs  must  plough  the  valleys,  or  the  valleys  grow 
no  wheat ; 

And  the  giants  of  the  mountains  would  have  then  no 
bread  to  eat.” 

Giants  and  dwarfs ! 

—  Translation  of  L.  F.  Starrett. 

THE  LOST  CHURCH. 

A  muffled  tolling  in  the  air 

Is  heard  far  down  the  wood’s  recesses; 

None  knows  when  first  it  sounded  there, 

Its  cause  tradition  dimly  guesses. 

Of  the  Lost  Church  the  chimes,  ’tis  said, 

Swell  on  the  breeze  through  these  lone  places ; 
Here  once  a  crowded  footpath  led, 

But  no  man  now  can  find  its  traces. 

As  late  that  woodland’s  depths  I  trod, 

Where  now  no  beaten  track  extended, 

And  from  this  troublous  time  to  God 
My  yearning  soul  in  prayer  ascended, 

When  all  the  wilderness  was  stilled, 

I  heard  again  that  airy  tolling; 

The  higher  my  devotion  swelled 

More  near  and  clear  the  waves  came  rolling. 

My  spirit  was  so  snatched  away, 

Inward  so  far  the  sound  upbore  me, 

That  to  this  hour  I  cannot  say 

What  strange,  unearthly  spell  was  o’er  me. 

More  than  a  hundred  years  had  fled, 

Methought,  while  I  had  thus  been  dreaming, 


0*  oi:  sul  ua' 


5-2 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


When  through  the  clouds  above  my  head 
Broke  a  free  space,  like  noontide  gleaming. 

The  heavens  looked  down  so  darkly  blue, 

So  full  and  bright  the  sun  was  beaming, 

And  a  proud  minster,  full  in  view, 

Stood  in  the  golden  lustre  gleaming. 

Methought  bright  clouds,  like  wings,  upbore 
The  stately  pile,  while  ever  higher 

Seemed  through  the  blessed  heavens  to  soar, 
Till  lost  to  sight,  the  sparkling  spire. 

I  heard  the  bell  with  rapturous  clang 

Thrill  down  through  all  the  trembling  tower; 

Swayed  by  no  human  hand  it  rang, 

But  by  a  holy  tempest’s  power. 

The  storm  and  stream  my  spirit  swept 
Aloft  as  on  a  billowy  ocean, 

Till  ’neath  that  lofty  dome  I  stept, 

With  trembling  tread  and  glad  emotion. 

How  in  those  halls  to  me  it  seemed 
Can  never  in  my  words  be  painted ; 

How  darkly  clear  the  windows  gleamed 
With  forms  of  all  the  martyrs  sainted. 

Then  saw  I,  filled  with  wondrous  light, 

Glow  into  life  these  pictured  splendors; 

A  world  was  opened  to  my  sight 

Of  holy  women  —  Faith’s  defenders. 

As,  thrilled  with  holy  love  and  awe, 

I  fell  before  the  altar  kneeling, 

Behold !  high  over  me  I  saw 

Heaven’s  glory  painted  on  the  ceiling. 

But  when  I  raised  my  eyes  once  more, 

The  arch  had  burst  with  silent  thunder; 

Wide  open  flung  was  heaven’s  high  door, 

And  every  veil  was  rent  asunder. 

What  majesty  I  now  beheld, 

In  still,  adoring  wonder  bending, 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHL  AND 


S3 


Upon  my  ear  what  music  swelled, 

Both  trump  and  organ  notes  transcending; 

No  word  of  man  hath  power  to  tell ; 

Who  yearns  to  know  and  vainly  guesses, 

Give  heed  to  that  mysterious  bell 

That  toils  far  down  the  wood’s  recesses. 

—  Translation  of  C.  T.  Brooks. 

THE  BEGGAR. 

A  Beggar  through  the  world  so  wide, 

I  wander  all  alone; 

Yet  once  a  brighter  fate  was  mine, 

In  days  that  long  have  flown. 

Within  my  father’s  home  I  grew, 

A  happy  child  and  free; 

But  ah  !  the  heritage  of  want 
Is  all  he  left  to  me. 

The  gardens  of  the  rich  I  view, 

The  fields  with  bounty  spread ; 

My  path  is  through  the  fruitless  way, 

Where  toil  and  sorrow  tread. 

And  yet  amidst  the  joyous  throng, 

The  joys  of  all  I  share, 

With  willing  heart'  I  wait,  and  hide 
My  secret  load  of  care. 

O  blessed  God  !  I  am  not  left 
An  exile  from  thy  love ; 

On  all  the  world  thy  smiles  descend 
In  mercy  from  above. 

In  every  valley  still  I  find 
The  temples  of  thy  grace, 

Where  organ  notes  and  choral  songs 
With  music  fill  the  place. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  ULILAND 


For  me  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 

Reveal  their  holy  rays, 

And  when  the  vespers  call  to  prayer, 

My  heart  ascends  in  praise. 

Some  time,  I  know,  the  gates  of  bliss 
Will  open  to  the  blest, 

And  I,  in  marriage  garments  clad, 

Shall  rise  a  welcome  guest. 

—  Translation  of  William  A.  Butler. 

THE  JOURNEY  HOME. 

O  break  not,  bridge  that  trembles  so ! 

O  fall  not,  rock  that  threat’nest  woe  ! 

Earth,  sink  not  down ;  thou,  heav’n,  abide 
Until  I  reach  my  loved  one’s  side  ! 

—  Translation  of  W.  W.  Skeat. 

THE  VENGEANCE. 

The  squire  hath  murdered  his  knight  for  gold; 
The  squire  would  fain  be  a  warrior  bold. 

He  slew  him  by  night  upon  a  drear  field, 

And  in  the  deep  Rhine  his  body  concealed. 

He  braced  on  the  armor,  so  heavy  and  bright, 

And  mounted  the  steed  of  his  master,  the  knight. 

And  as  he  rode  over  a  bridge  ’cross  the  Rhine 
The  charger  ’gan  fiercely  to  rear  and  to  whine. 

As  the  golden  spurs  in  the  flanks  did  go, 

The  squire  was  cast'  in  the  stream’s  wild  flow. 

With  foot  and  with  hand  he  struggles  in  vain, 

By  the  armor  drawn  down,  he  ne’er  rises  again. 

—  Translation  of  Henry  Phillips,  Jr. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


55 


THE  HOSTESS'S  DAUGHTER. 

Three  students  had  crossed  o’er  the  Rhine’s  dark  tide, 
At  the  door  of  a  hostel  they  turned  aside. 

“  Hast  thou,  Dame  Hostess,  good  ale  and  wine  ? 

And  where  is  thy  daughter  so  sweet  and  fine?” 

“  My  ale  and  wine  are  cool  and  clear ; 

On  her  death-bed  lieth  my  daughter  dear.” 

And  when  to  the  chamber  they  made  their  way, 

In  a  sable  coffin  the  damsel  lay. 

The  first  —  the  veil  from  her  face  he  took, 

And  gazed  upon  her  with  mournful  look. 

“  Alas  !  fair  maiden  —  didst  thou  still  live, 

To  thee  my  love  would  I  henceforth  give  !  ” 

The  second  —  he  lightly  replaced  the  shroud, 

Then  round  he  turned  him,  and  wept  aloud : 

“  Thou  liest,  alas !  on  thy  death-bed  here, 

I  loved  thee  fondly  for  many  a  year  ! 

The  third  —  he  lifted  again  the  veil, 

And  gently  he  kissed  those  lips  so  pale ; 

“  I  love  thee  now,  as  I  loved  of  yore , 

And  thus  will  I  love  thee  for  evermore !  ” 

—  Translation  of  W.  W.  Skeat. 

THE  MINSTREL’S  CURSE. 

There  stood  in  olden  times  a  castle,  tall  and  grand, 

Far  shone  it  o’er  the  plain,  e’en  to  the  blue  sea’s  strand, 
And  round  its  garden  wove  a  wreath  of  fragrant  flowers, 
In  rainbow  radiance  played  cool  fountains  ’mid  the  bowers. 


56 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


There  sat  a  haughty  king,  in  victories  rich  and  lands, 

He  sat  enthroned  so  pale,  and  issued  stern  commands ; 
For  what  he  broods  is  terror,  rage  his  eyeballs  lights, 
And  scourge  is  what  he  speaks,  and  blood  is  what  he 
writes. 

Once  to  this  castle  went  a  noble  minstrel  pair, 

The  one  with  golden  locks,  and  gray  the  other’s  hair ; 

The  old  man,  with  his  harp,  a  noble  charger  rode 
And  gayly  at  his  side  his  blooming  comrade  strode. 

The  old  man  to  the  stripling  spake :  “  Prepare  my  son  ! 
Bethink  our  deepest  songs,  awake  the  fullest  tone, 

Nerve  all  thy  strength,  and  sing  of  grief  as  well  as  love  ! 
Our  task  is  the  proud  monarch’s  stony  heart  to  move.” 

Now  in  the  pillared  hall  the  minstrels  stand  serene, 

And  on  the  throne  there  sit  the  monarch  and  his  queen ; 
The  king,  in  awful  pomp,  like  the  red  north-light’s  sheen, 
So  mild  and  gentle,  like  the  full  moon,  sat  the  queen. 

The  old  man  struck  the  chords,  he  struck  them  wondrous 
well  — 

Upon  the  ear  the  tones  e’er  rich  and  richer  swell ; 

Then  streamed  with  heavenly  tones  the  stripling’s  voice 
of  fire, 

The  old  man’s  voice  replied,  like  spirits’  hollow  choir. 

They  sing  of  spring  and  love,  the  golden  time  they  bless 
Of  freedom,  and  of  honor,  faith,  and  holiness. 

They  sing  of  all  the  joys  that  in  the  bosom  thrill, 

With  heart-exalting  strains  the  gilded  halls  they  fill. 

The  crowd  of  courtiers  round  forget  their  scoffing  how, 
The  king’s  bold  warriors  to  God  in  meekness  bow, 

The  queen  dissolved  in  raptures,  and  in  sadness  sweet 
The  rose  upon  her  breast  casts  at  the  minstrel’s  feet. 

“  My  people  led  astray,  and  now  you  tempt  my  queen !  ” 
The  monarch,  trembling,  cried,  and  rage  flashed  in  his 
mien. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND 


He  hurled  his  sword,  it  pierced  the  stripling  as  it  gleamed, 
Instead  of  golden  songs  a  purple  torrent  streamed. 

Then  was  the  host  of  hearers  scattered  as  by  storm. 

The  minstrel’s  outspread  arms  received  the  lifeless  form; 
He  wraps  his  mantle  round  him,  sets  him  on  his  steed, 
He  binds  him  upright,  fast,  and  leaves  the  hall  with  speed. 

But  at  the  portal’s  arch  the  aged  minstrel  stands, 

His  harp  of  matchless  fame  he  seized  with  both  his  hands, 
And  ’gainst  a  marble  pillar  dashing  it,  he  cries, 
Resounding  through  the  hall  the  trembling  echo  flies : 

“  Woe  be  to  thee,  proud  pile,  may  ne’er  sweet  music’s 
strain 

Amid  thy  halls  resound,  nor  song,  nor  harp  again ! 

No !  sighs  alone,  and  sobs,  and  slaves  that  bow  their 
head, 

Till  thee  to  dust  and  ashes  the  God  of  vengeance  tread ! 

“Ye  perfumed  gardens,  too,  in  May-day’s  golden  light, 
Gaze  here  upon  the  corpse  with  horror  and  affright, 

That  ye  may  parch  and  fade,  your  every  source  be  sealed, 
That  you  in  time  to  come  may  lie  a  barren  field. 

“  Woe,  murderer,  to  thee  !  let'  minstrels  curse  thy  name ! 
In  vain  shall  be  thy  wish  for  bloody  wreaths  of  fame; 
And  be  thy  name  forgot,  in  deep  oblivion  veiled, 

Be  like  a  dying  breath,  in  empty  air  exhaled !  ” 

The  old  man  cried  aloud,  and  Heaven  heard  the  sound : 
The  walls  a  heap  of  stones,  the  pile  bestrews  the  ground; 
One  pillar  stands  alone,  a  wreck  of  vanished  might, 

And  that,  too,  rent  in  twain,  may  fall  e’er  dawn  of  night. 

Around,,  where  gardens  smiled,  a  barren  desert  land,  « 
No  tree  spreads  there  its  shade,  no  fountains  pierce  the 
sand, 

Nor  of  this  monarch’s  name  speaks  song  or  epic  verse; 
Extinguish’d  and  forgot !  such  is  the  Minstrel’s  Curse. 

—  Translation  of  A.  Baskerville. 


58 


LOUIS  UlBACH 


fLBACH,  Louis,  a  French  poet  and  novelist; 
born  at  Troyes  in  1822;  died  April  16,  1889. 
For  many  years  he  was  connected  with  Uln - 
dependence  Beige;  in  1852  he  became  editor  of  the 
Revue  de  Paris,  and  in  1876  of  the  Ralliement.  In 
1877  he  was  decorated  with  the  Cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  Among  his  works  are  Gloriana,  a  volume 
of  poems  (1844);  Lettres  d’une  Honnete  Femme 
(1873);  Le  Marteau  d’Acier  (1873);  Le  Sacrifice 
d’Aurelie  (1873)  ;  La  Ronde  de  Nuit  (1874)  ;  Le 
Livre  d’une  Mere  (1875)  1  Aventures  de  Trois  Gran- 
des  Dames  de  la  Cour  de  Vienne  (1876)  ;  Le  Baron 
Americain  (1876)  ;  Le  Comte  Orphee  (1878)  ;  Mine. 
Gosselin  (1878).  Several  of  his  works  have  been 
translated  into  English,  among  which  is  The  Steel 
Hammer,  translated  in  1888. 


THE  VERDICT. 


Emilienne  listened  to  it  all.  Her  ears  caught  the  dread¬ 
ful  words.  People  near  her  lowered  their  voices  a  little ; 
but  she  heard  them  through  the  hum ;  and  the  pale  Christ 
over  the  seat  of  judgment,  smitten  afresh  by  the  dreadful 
talk  around  Him,  seemed  to  her  to  sweat  drops  of  blood 
in  Flis  oaken  frame. 

She  had  remained  leaning  on  the  balustrade,  her  elbows 
resting  on  the  wood,  silent,  motionless,  savage,  and  em¬ 
bittered,  thinking  how  she  could  visit  her  anger  on  all 
mankind,  and  on  the  law  itself,  if  the  blow  she  appre¬ 
hended  should  fall  on  her  innocent  husband. 

The  platform,  now  quitted  by  the  judges,  left  full  in 
her  view  Madame  de  Monterey;  and  now  the  two  wives 
looked  at  each  other. 

Gabrielle  knew  nothing  of  what  was  being  said  around 
Emilienne,  but  she  observed  upon  her  face  the  reflection 
of  each  horrible  word.  She  saw  her  petrified  by  a  horror 


LOUIS  ULBACH 


59 


that  froze  all  her  limbs,  and  she  herself  quivered  with 
anxiety. 

Gaston,  nailed  as  it  were  upon  his  seat,  for  he  had  not 
dared  to  leave  the  court-room,  was  biting  his  nails  furi¬ 
ously.  He  looked  every  minute  or  two  at  his  watch,  or 
cast  suspicious  glances  to  right  and  left  of  him,  as  if  he 
were  afraid  that  somebody  would  feel  astonished  at  his 
keeping  his  seat,  now  that  he  had  no  more  part  in  the 
trial,  but  carefully  avoiding  looking  straight  before  him 
in  the  direction  of  the  platform.  A  judge  sat  there  for 
him,  and  him  alone,  and  that  judge  was  Gabrielle. 

He  thought  the  court-room  suffocating.  Drops  stood 
upon  his  forehead.  He  did  not  wipe  them  off ;  so  that  he 
might  have  been  said  to  weep  at  every  pore. 

At  the  end  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  the  ringing  of 
a  bell  made  everybody  start.  Gaston  folded  his  arms, 
Gabrielle  clasped  her  hands  tighter,  and  Emilienne 
clutched  more  firmly  the  balustrade. 

The  jurors  came  back. 

They  did  not  look  so  very  terrible.  None  of  them  was 
pale.  That,  at  least,  was  a  good  sign. 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  held  with  dignity  before  his 
breast  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  on  which  the  verdict  was 
written.  If  the  paper  had  been  bloodstained,  surely  so 
good  a  man  (a  worker  in  bronze,  he  was  in  the  Marais) 
could  not  have  pressed  it,  as  he  was  doing,  to  his  heart. 

The  judges  came  in. 

All  these  details,  which  I  have  not  invented,  and  which 
form  part  of  the  every-day  proceedings  in  a  law-court, 
seem  to  me  indispensable  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  drama. 

There  was  a.  deep  silence  —  a  silence  as  if  everything 
held  its  breath,  and  the  presiding  judge  requested  the  fore¬ 
man  of  the  jury  to  read  the  verdict. 

Jean,  who  had  been  brought  in  at  the  same  time  as  the 
judges  entered,  stood  up,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  wife, 
and  pale  as  death. 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
which  seemed  to  have  an  escutcheon  or  placard  over  it, 
for  the  pocket-book  in  his  pocket  made  a  square  outline 
on  the  left  side  of  his  coat,  and,  in  an  official  voice  he 
read : 


6o 


LOUIS  ULBACH 


“  On  my  honor  and  my  conscience,  before  God  and  be¬ 
fore  men,  the  verdict  of  the  jury  is  —  Yes;  the  majority 
decide  that  the  prisoner  is  guilty  !  ” 

As  a  murmur  rose,  the  artisan  in  bronze,  who  was  not 
of  bronze  himself,  hastened  to  add : 

“  The  majority  of  us  consider  that  there  are  extenuating 
circumstances  in  favor  of  the  prisoner.” 

Jean  fell  back  in  his  seat,  utterly  overcome. 

Emilienne  had  been  about  to  utter  a  cry,  but  she  re¬ 
strained  herself  with  all  her  strength.  What  was  the  use 
of  giving  those  spectators  who  had  come  there  to  look  on 
grief  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  despair?  .  .  . 

The  imperial  prosecutor  demanded  sentence.  The  pre¬ 
siding  judge  then  asked  the  prisoner’s  counsel  if  he  had 
anything  more  to  say. 

“  I  recommend  Jean  Mortier  to  the  indulgence  of  the 
court,”  said  the  lawyer,  gathering  up  his  papers,  and  in 
the  commonplace  tone  in  which  a  priest,  accustomed  to 
death-beds,  says  a  requiem  over  a  dead  body  as  he  is  about 
to  go  away 

The  judges  had  no  need  to  retire  to  their  chamber  to 
consult  together.  They  rose,  drew  somewhat  apart,  and 
talked  in  whispers.  The  chief  judge,  like  the  officiating 
priest  when  he  says  the  confession  in  the  beginning  of  the 
mass,  bowed  right  and  left  to  those  around  him,  and  they, 
like  the  lesser  clergy  in  the  service,  bent  toward  him  and 
bowed  to  him. 

After  that  Jean  Mortier’s  affair  was  ended. 

The  judge  went  back  to  his  place,  put  on  his  cap  (the 
cap  adds  to  his  infallibility),  and  after  reading  the  articles 
of  the  code  sufficiently  abridged  for  the  purpose,  gave  sen¬ 
tence,  condemning  Jean  Mortier  to  fifteen  years’  hard  la¬ 
bor  at  the  galleys. 

This  was  not  a  severe  sentence  for  so  great  a  crime. 

“  Prisoner,  you  have  three  days  left  to  make  your  ap¬ 
peal  for  a  new  trial  to  the  cour  de  cassation  ”  said  the  chief 
judge,  mildly. 

Jean  remained  standing,  not  stupefied,  but  thunderstruck, 
and  trying  to  care  nothing  for  the  thunderbolt.  He  re¬ 
membered  the  words  of  the  verdict ;  it  had  hit  him  like  an 
arrow  in  his  face,  and  imitating,  unconsciously,  the  for- 


ULFILAS 


61 


mula  of  the  foreman  of  the  jury,  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  heart  and  said,  loudly : 

“  On  my  honor  and  my  conscience,  before  God  and  be¬ 
fore  men,  I  swear  that  I  am  innocent.  I  refuse  any  ex¬ 
tenuating  circumstances,  I  refuse  to  appeal,  I  refuse  the 
galleys.  I  commit  my  cause  to  God,  Who  will  judge  you 
all,  and  will  some  day  make  manifest  the  real  murderer, 
when  it  is  too  late.” 

Some  newspapers  blamed  this  speech,  saying  it  was  too 
theatrical  not  to  be  the  utterance  of  a  hypocrite. 

Jean  turned  toward  his  wife. 

“  Farewell,  my  Emilienne  !  ” 

That  possessive  pronoun  uttered  at  the  moment  when 
wife  and  child  and  property  and  all  things  else  ceased  to 
be  his,  appeared  also  a  bravado. 

Jean  quickly  left  the  court-room,  dragged  out  by  the 
gendarmes,  not  hearing  or  not  listening  to  his  wife,  who 
cried  after  him : 

“Aurevoir!  Au  revoir !  ” 

The  crowd  heard  her,  and  were  differently  impressed 
by  this  supreme  protest'. 

People  stood  aside  to  let  Emilienne  pass.  She  had  come 
there  alone,  and  alone  she  went  away.  All  her  limbs 
trembled,  but  she  did  not  faint,  and  without  supporting 
herself  by  the  wall  she  went  down  the  staircase  of  the 
cour  a’assizes,  and  hastened  with  a  quick  step  toward  the 
conciergerie. —  The  Steel  Hammer;  translation  of  E.  W. 
Latimer. 


aLFILAS,  or  WULFILA  (“  Little  Wolf”), 
a  Gothic  bishop  and  translator  of  the  Bible, 
born  in  31 1  a.d.  ;  died  at  Constantinople  in 
381.  His  parents  were  Christians  from  Cappadocia. 
At  the  Synod  of  Antioch  in  341,  he  was  consecrated 
Bishop  of  the  Arian  Goths,  who  lived  north  of  the 
lower  Danube.  LHfilas  preached  in  Latin,  Greek,  and 


62 


ULFILAS 


Gothic,  translating  the  Scriptures  into  the  latter 
tongue,  for  which  it  became  necessary  to  supplement 
the  Greek  alphabet  with  Gothic  runes.  The  manu¬ 
script  of  the  translation  was  lost  for  a  time,  but  part 
of  it  was  found  during  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
Book  of  Kings,  however,  is  missing  and  may  never 
have  been  translated.  There  are  extant  the  greater 
portion  of  the  Gospels,  a  large  portion  of  the  Epistles, 
and  fragments  of  the  Old  Testament.  The  original 
work  shows  evidences  of  having  been  done  by  various 
hands,  but  doubtless  all  under  the  supervision  of  Ul- 
filas.  This  translation  is  highly  prized  by  philolo¬ 
gists,  the  Gothic  grammar  being  of  priceless  value  in 
the  history  of  human  speech.  It  is  three  centuries 
earlier  than  any  other  specimen  of  Teutonic  language 
in  existence.  The  principal  portion  is  the  Codex  Ar- 
genteus,  in  the  university  library  at  Upsala,  Sweden, 
which  is  written  in  silver  characters  on  a  purple 
ground.  Other  fragments  are  preserved  at  Wolfen- 
biittel,  Germany,  and  at  Milan  and  Turin.  In  these 
old  manuscripts  are  many  inflections  which  have  since 
been  lost,  and  words  which  give  us  the  clew  to  rela¬ 
tionships  otherwise  untraceable,  and  with  phrases 
which  cast  a  strong  light  on  the  joyous  youth  of  the 
Teutonic  people. 

ULFILAS’S  CREED. 

(Included  in  His  Will.) 

I,  Ulfila,  bishop  and  confessor,  have  ever  thus  believed, 
and  in  this  alone  true  faith  make  my  testament  to  my 
Lord:  I  believe  that  there  is  one  God  the  Father,  alone 
unbegotten  and  invisible ;  and  I  believe  in  His  only  begot¬ 
ten  Son,  our  Lord  and  our  God,  Artificer  and  Maker  of 
the  whole  creation,  having  none  like  Himself.  Therefore, 
there  is  one  God  of  all  [the  Father],  who  is  also  God  of 


GEORGE  PUTNAM  UPTON 


63 


our  God  [the  Son].  And  I  believe  in  one  Holy  Spirit,  an 
enlightening  and  sanctifying  power,  even  as  Christ  said 
to  His  Apostles,  “  Behold,  I  send  the  promise  of  My 
Father  in  you;  but  tarry  ye  at  Jerusalem  till  ye  shall  be 
endued  with  power  from  on  high,”  and  again,  “  Ye  shall 
receive  power  when  the  Holy  Spirit'  is  come  upon  you;  ” 
and  this  Holy  Spirit  is  neither  God  nor  Lord,  but  the 
servant  of  Christ,  subject  and  obedient  in  all  things  to 
the  Father — [The  conclusion  of  the  sentence  is  want¬ 
ing. 


^sy^PTON,  George  Putnam,  an  American  journal- 
^  ist,  critic  and  translator ;  born  at  Roxbury, 
Mass.,  October  25,  1834.  He  was  educated 
in  the  schools  of  Roxbury  and  at  Brown  University, 
from  which  he  graduated  in  1854.  In  October,  1855, 
he  went  to  Chicago  and  became  connected  with  the 
Chicago  National  Citizen,  later  with  the  Chicago  Even¬ 
ing  Journal,  and  from  1862  to  1871  was  literary,  art, 
musical  and  dramatic  critic  on  the  Chicago  Tribune. 
Since  1871  he  has  been  an  editorial  writer  on  that 
paper.  Among  his  earlier  publications  are  Letters  of 
Peregrine  Pickle  (1869),  and  History  of  the  Chicago 
Fire  (1872).  His  later  works  include  Woman  in 
Music  (1880)  ;  translation  of  Max  Muller’s  Deutsche 
Licbc  (1880)  ;  translations  of  Ludwig  Nohl’s  Lives  of 
Beethoven,  Haydn,  Liszt  and  Wagner  (1884)  ;  Stand¬ 
ard  Operas  (1885);  Standard  Oratorios  (1886); 
Standard  Cantatas  (1887);  Standard  Symphonies 
(1888).  Mr.  Upton  has  also  been  a  frequent  con¬ 
tributor  to  periodical  literature. 


64 


GEORGE  PUTNAM  UPTON 


WOMAN  NOT  A  COMPOSER. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  woman,  who  possesses  all  these 
attributes  in  a  more  marked  degree  than  man,  who  is  the 
inspiration  of  love,  who  has  a  more  powerful  and  at  the 
same  time  more  delicate  emotional  force  than  man,  who 
is  artistic  by  temperament,  whose  whole  organism  is  sen¬ 
sitively  strung,  and  who  is  religious  by  nature  —  why  is  it 
that  woman,  with  all  these  musical  elements  in  her  nature, 
is  receptive  rather  than  creative?  Why  is  it  that  music 
only  comes  to  her  as  a  balm,  a  rest,  or  a  solace  of 
happiness  among  her  pleasures  and  her  sorrows,  her  corn- 
monplaces  and  her  conventionalities,  and  that  it  does  not 
find  its  highest  sources  in  her?  In  other  fields  of  art 
woman  has  been  creative.  Rosa  Bonheur  is  man’s  equal 
upon  canvas.  Harriet  Hosmer  has  made  the  marble  live 
with  a  man’s  truth  and  force  and  skill.  Mrs.  Browning 
in  poetry,  Mary  Somerville  and  Caroline  Herschel  in  sci¬ 
ence,  George  Sand,  Charlotte  Bronte  and  Madame  de 
Stael  in  fiction,  have  successfully  rivalled  man  in  their 
fields  of  labor;  while  George  Eliot,  with  almost  more  than 
masculine  force,  has  grappled  with  the  most  abstruse  prob¬ 
lems  of  human  life,  and  though  an  agnostic  has  cour¬ 
ageously  sifted  the  doubts  of  science  and  latter-day  cul¬ 
tured  unbelief,  and  plucked  many  a  rose  of  blessing  for 
suffering  humanity  from  amid  its  storms  of  sorrow  and 
pain.  .  .  . 

There  is  another  phase  of  the  feminine  character  which 
may  bear  upon  the  solution  of  this  problem ;  and  that  is 
the  inability  of  woman  to  endure  the  discouragements  of 
the  composer,  and  to  battle  with  the  prejudice  and  indiT 
ference,  and  sometimes  with  the  malicious  opposition  of 
the  world,  that  obstruct  his  progress.  The  lives  of  the 
great  composers,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  were  spent 
in  constant  struggle,  and  saddened  with  discouragements, 
disappointments,  the  pinching  of  poverty,  the  jealousies  of 
rivals,  or  the  contemptuous  indifference  of  contemporaries. 
Beethoven  struggled  all  his  life  with  adverse  fate.  Schu¬ 
bert’s  music  was  hardly  known  in  his  lifetime,  and  his 
best  works  were  not  fairly  recognized  until  after  his  death. 


GEORGE  PUTNAM  UPTON 


65 


Schumann  is  hardly  yet  known.  There  is  scarcely  a  more 
pitiable  picture  than  that  of  the  great  Handel  struggling 
against  the  malicious  cabals  of  petty  and  insignificant  rivals 
for  popular  favor  who  now  are  scarcely  known  even  by 
name.  Mozart’s  life  was  a  constant  warfare ;  and  when 
this  wonderful  child  of  genius  went  to  his  grave  in  the 
paupers’  quarter  of  the  church-yard  of  St.  Marx,  he  went 
alone  —  not  one  friend  accompanied  him,  and  no  one 
knows  to  this  day  where  he  sleeps.  Berlioz’s  music  is 
just  beginning  to  be  played  in  his  native  country.  Wag¬ 
ner  fought  the  world  all  his  life  with  indomitable  courage 
and  persistence,  and  died  before  he  had  established  a  per¬ 
manent  place  for  his  music.  There  is  scarcely  a  com¬ 
poser  known  to  fame,  and  whose  works  are  destined  to 
endure,  who  lived  long  enough  to  see  his  music  appre¬ 
ciated  and  accepted  by  the  world  for  what  it  was  really 
worth.  Such  fierce  struggles  and  overwhelming  discour¬ 
agements,  such  pitiless  storms  of  fate  and  cruel  assaults 
of  poverty,  in  the  pursuit  of  art,  woman  is  not  calculated 
to  endure.  If  her  triumph  could  be  instant;  if  work  after 
work  were  not  to  be  assailed,  scoffed  at,  and  rejected;  if 
she  were  not  liable  to  personal  abuse,  to  the  indifference 
of  her  sex  on  the  one  hand  and  masculine  injustice  on 
the  other  —  there  would  be  more  hope  for  her  success  in 
composition;  but  instant  triumphs  are  not  the  rewards  of 
great  composers.  The  laurels  of  success  may  decorate 
their  graves,  placed  there  by  the  applauding  hands  of  ad¬ 
miring  posterity,  but  rarely  crown  their  brows. —  Woman 
in  Music. 

BEETHOVEN. 

A  general  sketch  of  the  life  and  musical  accomplish¬ 
ments  of  Beethoven  has  already  appeared  in  the  com¬ 
panion  to  this  work,  The  Standard  Operas.  In  this  con¬ 
nection,  however,  it  seems  eminently  fitting  that  some 
attention  should  be  paid  to  the  religious  sentiments  of  the 
great  composer  and  the  sacred  works  which  he  produced. 
He  was  a  formal  member  of  the  Roman  Church,  but  at 
the  same  time  an  ardent  admirer  of  some  of  the  Protestant 
doctrines.  His  religious  observances,  however,  were  pe¬ 
culiarly  his  OAvn.  His  creed  had  little  in  common  with 
Vol.  XXIII.— 5 


66 


GEORGE  PUTNAM  UPTON 


any  of  the  ordinary  forms  of  Christianity.  A  writer  in 
Macmillan’s  Magazine  some  years  ago  very  clearly  de- 
fined  his  religious  position  in  the  statement  that  his  faith 
rested  on  a  pantheistic  abstraction  which  he  called  “  Love.” 
He  interpreted  everything  by  the  light  of  this  sentiment, 
which  took  the  form  of  an  endless  longing,  sometimes 
deeply  sad,  at  others  rising  to  the  highest  exaltation.  An 
illustration  of  this  in  its  widest  sense  may  be  found  in 
the  choral  part  of  the  Ninth  Symphony.  He  at  times 
attempted  to  give  verbal  expression  to  this  ecstatic  faith 
which  filled  him,  and  at  such  times  he  reminds  us  of  the 
Mystics.  The  following  passages,  which  he  took  from 
the  inscription  on  the  temple  of  the  Egyptian  goddess 
Neith  at  Sais,  and  called  his  creed,  explain  this:  “I  am 
that  which  is.  I  am  all  that  is,  that  was,  and  that  shall 
be.  No  mortal  man  hath  lifted  my  veil.  He  is  alone  by 
Himself,  and  to  Him  alone  do  all  things  owe  their  being.” 
With  all  this  mysticism  his  theology  was  practical,  as  is 
shown  by  his  criticism  of  the  words  which  Moscheles  ap¬ 
pended  to  his  arrangement  of  “  Fidelio.”  The  latter  wrote 
at  the  close  of  his  work:  u  Fine,  with  God’s  help.”  Bee¬ 
thoven  added :  “  O  man !  help  thyself.”  That  he  was 
deeply  religious  by  nature,  however,  is  constantly  shown 
in  his  letters.  Wandering  alone  at  evening  among  the 
mountains,  he  sketched  a  hymn  to  the  words,  “  God  alone 
is  our  Lord.”  In  the  extraordinary  letter  which  he  wrote 
to  his  brothers,  Carl  and  Johann,  he  says :  “  God  looks 
into  my  heart.  He  searches  it,  and  knows  that  love  for 
man  and  feelings  of  benevolence  have  their  abode  there.” 
In  a  letter  to  Bettina  von  Arnim,  he  writes:  “If  I  am 
spared  for  some  years  to  come,  I  will  thank  the  Omnipo¬ 
tent  for  the  boon,  as  I  do  for  all  other  weal  and  woe.” — 
The  Standard  Oratorios. 


DAVID  URQUHART 


67 


SRQUHART,  David,  a  British  publicist ;  born  in 
Bracklanwell,  county  of  Cromarty,  in  1805 ; 
died  at  Naples,  Italy,  May  16,  1877.  He  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  traveled  in  the  East,  and  was 
appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  at  Constantinople,  re¬ 
turning  to  England  in  1836.  In  1847  he  was  elected 
to  Parliament  from  Stafford,  but  was  not  re-elected 
in  1852.  Among  his  works  are:  Observations  on  Eu¬ 
ropean  Turkey  (1831)  ;  Turkey  and  its  Resources 
( 1&33)  1  Spirit  of  the  East  ( 1838)  ;  The  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules,  a  Narrative  of  Travels  in  Spain  and  Morocco 
(1850);  The  Progress  of  Russia  (1853),  and  The 
Lebanon  (i860). 


THE  CEDARS  OF  GOD. 

How  accurate  the  Prophet’s  description :  “  A  cedar  in 
Lebanon  with  fair  branches,  with  a  shadowy  shroud  and 
of  high  stature,  and  his  top  was  among  the  thick  boughs.” 

In  presence  of  our  ancient  British  oaks,  I  have  felt  awe¬ 
struck  with  the  thought  that  the  tread  of  Roman  legions 
had  echoed  from  their  boughs.  What  then  must'  one  feel 
beneath  tabernacles  of  verdure  planted  at  the  beginning 
of  time,  and  standing  now ;  in  vigor  equal  to  attempting  a 
race  with  futurity  as  long  as  that  which  they  have  already 
run.  Then,  too,  insects  of  human  spawn,  hatched  and 
harvested  in  a  day,  may  snatch  an  hour  from  their  scanty 
reckoning  amidst  their  noisy  fellows,  to  wander  in  the 
shade  or  shadows  of  12,000  years,  and  wonder  at  the  story 
of  four  hundred  generations  which  they  have  seen  and 
will  see. 

I  have  spoken  as  yet  but  of  one  cedar.  What',  then, 
was  the  grove  ?  It  was  of  trees  of  the  same  species  in¬ 
deed,  but  of  ordinary  dimensions,  and  these  shot  straight 
up  as  we  see  in  the  so-called  cedars  brought  to  Europe; 
there  was  no  block  and  no  parting  off  of  branches;  this 
peculiarity  belonged  only  to  the  antediluvian  breed.  The 


68 


DAVID  URQUHART 


Titans  only  had  the  arms  of  Briareus.  Elsewhere  I  found 
more  of  these  vast  vegetable  polypi :  they  are  chiefly  on 
the  top  of  the  hill,  perhaps  ten  in  all.  Of  these  two  ap¬ 
proach  their  fall ;  one  by  being  burnt  at  the  root,  the  other 
breached  by  the  storm.  Three  more  are  unsound;  two 
only  are  in  their  prime,  and  to  them  it  belongs  to  convey 
to  future  times  an  idea  of  the  giant  brood ;  if  indeed  they 
be  not  soon  killed  while  the  miscreant  habit  obtains  of 
stripping  off  the  bark  for  fools  to  write  their  names. 

A  French  writer,  in  1725,  whose  work  I  saw  at  the 
Jesuit  convent  at  Gazir,  estimates  then  the  old  trees  at 
twenty.  Thus  one-half  have  been  used  up  in  a  century 
by  tourists  for  an  album.  There  are  perhaps  thirty  more 
which  would  take  four  men  to  girth,  and  which  may  be 
two  or  three  thousand  years  old.  The  remainder,  which 
may  amount  to  five  thousand,  are  of  smaller  dimensions, 
though  none  seems  to  be  younger  than  a  couple  of  cen¬ 
turies  :  These  are  the  character  of  the  old  species.  The 
trunk  divides  at  from  ten  to  twenty  feet  from  the  ground ; 
the  branches  contorted  and  snake-like,  spread  out  as  from 
a  centre,  and  give  to  the  tree  the  figure  of  a  dome.  The 
leaf-bearing  boughs  spread  horizontally ;  the  leaves  are 
spiculae,  point  upward,  growing  from  the  bough  like  grass 
from  the  earth.  These  spicuke  are  thick  and  short,  about 
an  inch  in  length.  The  cones  stand  up  in  like  manner, 
and  are  seen  in  rows  above  the  straight  boughs.  The 
cones  contain  seeds  like  the  cone  of  the  snow-bar.  The 
timber  is  in  color  like  the  red  pine,  with  a  shade  of  brown. 
It  is  close-grained  and  extremely  hard.  No  worm  touches 
it,  and  the  centre  of  the  largest  trees  seems  solid.  It  is 
considered  the  most  durable  of  woods.  In  the  destruction 
of  Antioch,  Tyre,  and  other  places,  in  the  time  of  the  Cru¬ 
saders,  the  beams  of  cedar  are  enumerated  and  mourned 
over,  as  are  the  vessels  of  gold  and  silver  and  the  glass  of 
Tyre.  Many  of  these  must  have  been  from  the  time  of 
Hiram  and  Solomon.  They  burn  without  smoke,  and  emit 
the  perfume  of  frankincense. 

I  made  a  fire  of  cedar-wood,  but  with  the  fragments 
around,  and  half-burned  trunks.  I  lighted  a  flame  amid 
the  snow,  which  filled  the  wood  with  its  oven  perfume. 
The  light  smoke  hung  in  the  boughs,  as  vapor  of  amber 


DAVID  URQVHART 


69 


and  opal,  and  then  from  the  clear  flame  a  perpendicular 
mirage  arose,  through  which  danced  snow,  foliage,  and 
sky,  as  if  seen  through  an  atmosphere  of  boiling  glass. 
Their  name  in  Arabic  is  Arz.  They  are  called  Arz  Leb- 
nan,  Arz  Allah,  Arz  Mobarik;  the  Arz  of  Lebanon,  the 
Arz  of  God,  the  blessed  Arz.  The  sacred  character  is, 
however,  not  solely  derived  from  their  form  and  position : 
it  must  be  attributed  also  to  their  solitariness.  At  present 
to  visit  them  constitutes  a  pilgrimage.  There  is,  besides, 
the  mystery.  A  plant  that  stands  alive  before  you  and 
yearly  produces  its  seed,  and  which  yet  cannot  be  repro¬ 
duced  by  means  of  that  seed,  is  something  out  of  the  order 
of  nature.  That  in  the  time  of  the  Prophets  they  were 
confined  to  this  district,  the  Old  Testament  informs  us; 
that  to-day  they  are  to  be  found  nowhere  else,  any  trav¬ 
eler’s  eyes  may  tell  him. —  The  Lebanon. 


V 


»ALAORITIS,  Aristoteles,  a  Greek  poet  and 
patriot ;  born  at  Santa  Maura,  Ionian  Isles, 
September  13,  1824  ;  died  near  Santa  Maura, 
in  September,  1879.  He  was  educated  first  in  the 
Ionian  Isles,  and  subsequently  at  a  school  in  Geneva. 
Later  he  went  to  Paris,  but  the  Northern  climate  was 
too  severe  for  his  constitution,  and  he  completed  his 
studies  at  the  university  of  Pisa.  In  1850  he  returned 
to  Santa  Maura.  An  ardent  and  active  Plellene,  he 
was  among  those  deputies  in  the  Ionian  chamber  who 
never  ceased  to  combat  the  British  Protectorate.  It 
was  he  who  drew  up  and  presented,  in  1862,  to  the 
Lord  High  Commissioner  the  declaration  in  which  the 
representatives  of  the  Ionian  Islands  petitioned  for 
their  union  with  Greece ;  and  he  was  shortly  afterward 
elected  a  representative  in  the  National  Chamber  at 
Athens. 

Valaoritis  wrote  a  number  of  poems  in  early  youth ; 
but  a  published  collection,  which  indicated  certain 
promise,  was  not  followed  by  any  further  volume  until 
he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two.  In  1857  ap¬ 
peared  the  famous  volume  known  as  the  Mnemosyna. 
His  later  poems  approach  even  more  closely  than  his 
early  ones  those  popular  songs  which  were  his  chief 

(70) 


V  ALAORITIS 


7 1 


inspiration.  It  is  not  easy  to  find  an  exact  English 
equivalent  for  the  title  Mnemosyna ,  as  the  commemo¬ 
rative  services  for  the  dead  which  it  is  used  to  indicate 
in  Greek  are  unknown  among  us ;  the  nearest  transla¬ 
tion  would  perhaps  be  “  Memorial  Poems,”  and  as  such 
the  collection  includes  elegies  recording  personal  losses 
and  odes  commemorating  the  heroes  and  forerunners 
of  Greek  independence. 

Of  the  following  extracts  —  translated  by  Rennell 
Rodd  —  the  former  is  from  a  poem  which  tells  of  the 
heroic  self-immolation  of  the  priest  Samuel,  known 
as  “  the  prophet  of  Kiapha,”  who,  in  1803,  refusing  to 
leave  the  abandoned  fortress  of  Kounghi,  remained 
with  five  wounded  pallikars  to  await  the  advance  of 
the  enemy.  They  gathered  all  the  remaining  powder 
together  in  the  chapel,  and  as  the  soldiers  advanced, 
Samuel  administered  the  communion  to  his  five  com¬ 
rades  ;  then,  as  the  strokes  of  the  invaders  fell  upon 
the  door,  he  fired  the  magazine  and  was  buried  with 
the  foe  in  the  ruins  of  Kounghi. 

THE  VICTORY  OF  GOD. 

The  first’  has  partaken,  the  second  has  partaken, 

He  has  given  it  to  the  third ;  the  fourth  has  received  it, 
He  stands  before  the  last  one,  and  offers  it  to  him; 

And  as  the  priest’s  melodious  voice  intoned  the 
“  Of  Thy  mysterious  banquet 

To-day,  O  Son  of  God - ” 

Voices  broke  in,  blows  on  the  door,  loud  tumult; 

The  infidels  press  round:  “  Now,  mark,  what  dost  thou 
here  ?  ” 

Samuel  lifted  his  eyes  up  at  the  sound, 

And  from  the  spoon  poised  high  above  the  barrel 
Let  fall  thereon  an  awful  drop  of  consecrated  blood : 

Then  broke  the  lightning  shock,  the  great  world  thun¬ 
dered, 


72 


V  ALAORITIS 


The  church  showed  one  red  flash  upon  the  clouds,  one  red 
flash,  dusky  Kounghi ! 

Ah,  what  a  funeral  fire  on  this  her  day  of  doom 
Had  ill-starred  Suli,  what  smoke  of  what  frankincense ! 
Then  seemed  to  mount  up  skyward  the  monk’s  dark  cas¬ 
sock, 

And  spread  and  ever  spread  like  an  awful  cloud  of  gloom. 
Like  a  great,  black  cloud  it  spread  and  blotted  out  the 
sun ; 

And  as  the  smoke  kept  rising  that  bore  it  in  its  train 
The  robe  went  sailing  on  and  swept  by  like  the  shadow  of 
death ; 

And  wherever  its  terrible  shadow  passed  on  its  way 
Like  a  mysterious  fire  it  set  the  woods  aflame. 

Yet  with  the  first  few  thunderstorms,  and  after  the  new 
rains, 

A  green  grass  sprang  again  there,  laurel  and  olive  and 
myrtle, 

Hopes,  victories  and  battles,  and  liberty  and  joy. 

—  From  Mnemosyna. 

THE  VISION  OF  THANASE  THE  MARTYR. 

The  eye  of  God  that  never  shuts  kept  vigil  also; 

And  suddenly  there  came  in  their  thousands  round  Tha¬ 
nase 

The  mighty  spirits  from  another  world, 

With  the  symbols  of  their  ancient  martyrdom,  their  man¬ 
liness  of  old, 

And  they  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  and  breathed  new 
vigor  through  him; 

And  o’er  his  gloomy  prison  they,  in  their  azure  stoles, 
Spread  wide  their  wings  abroad,  and  opened  round  above 
him 

The  deeps  of  heaven  infinite,  and  starred  them  o’er 
With  memories  immortal  and  sweet  perfumes  from  the 
grave. 

—  From  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Thanase  Diakos,  in 
Mnemosyna - 


ARMANDO  PAL  AC  10  VALDES 


73 


^-^ALDES,  Armando  Palacio,  a  Spanish  novelist 
and  critic;  born  at  Madrid  in  1859.  A  good 
VT'Jl  representative,  though  not  in  all  respects  the 
highest,  of  the  new  school  of  Spanish  fiction,  he  is 
natural,  graphic,  full  of  life  and  color,  and  might  be 
called  an  idealizing  realist.  His  novels  are  El  Senorito 
Octavio,  Marta  y  Maria  (transited  with  the  title  Mar¬ 
quis  of  Penalta  in  1886)  ;  El  Idilio  de  un  Enfermo 
(Invalid);  Aguas  Fuertas  (Strong  Waters  —  stories 
and  sketches)  ;  Jose,  Riverita,  Maximina  (translated  in 
1888  —  a  sequel  to  Riverita,  and  commended  as  a  book 
that  makes  goodness  interesting),  El  Cuarto  Podcr 
(The  Fourth  Estate)  ;  La  Hermana  San  Sulpicio  (Sis¬ 
ter  St.  Sulpice  —  translated  in  1890);  and  Espuma 
(Froth).  The  translations  here  noted  are  by  Nathan 
Haskell  Dole,  of  Boston.  In  explanation  of  the  fol¬ 
lowing  selection,  it  should  be  stated  that  Sister  St. 
Sulpice,  her  own  name  Gloria,  had  taken  but  a  tem¬ 
porary  vow  of  two  years  in  the  convent.  The  critical 
works  of  Valdes  are  Los  Oradores  del  Ateneo ;  Los 
Novelistas  Espanoles;  Neuve  Viaje  al  Parnaso;  and 
La  Literature  en  1881  (in  collaboration). 

SEVILLE. 

Walking  through  the  streets  of  Seville  at  that  time  of 
the  evening  was  like  visiting  at  the  houses.  Families  and 
their  callers  gathered  in  the  patios,  and  there  was  an  ex¬ 
cellent  view  of  the  patios  from  the  streets  through  the 
screen  doors.  I  saw  young  ladies  in  thin  dresses,  rocking 
back  and  forth  in  their  American  chairs,  their  black  hair 
braided  and  decorated  with  some  bright-colored  flower, 
while  their  beaux,  lolling  unceremoniously  in  easy-chairs, 
chatted  with  them  in  low  tones  or  fanned  them.  I  heard 
their  cries,  their  laughter,  their  piquant  phrases. 


74 


ARMANDO  PAL  AC  10  VALDES 


In  some  of  the  court-yards  they  were  playing  the  guitar 
and  singing  merry  malaguenas  or  melancholy  peteneras, 
with  prolonged,  mournful  notes,  interrupted  by  the  olcs ! 
and  clapping  of  hands  among  the  hearers. 

In  others,  two  or  three  young  girls  would  be  dancing 
seguidillas;  the  castanets  clacked  merrily;  the  silhouettes 
of  the  dancers  floated  back  and  forth  across  the  screen 
door  in  attitudes  now  haughty,  now  languid  and  languish¬ 
ing,  always  provocative,  full  of  voluptuous  promises. 

Those  were  the  patios  which  might  be  called  tradi¬ 
tional. 

There  were  others,  also,  in  modern  style  or  modernized, 
where  fashionable  waltzes  were  played  on  the  pianoforte 
or  the  more  popular  pieces  from  the  zarzuelas  or  ope¬ 
rettas  recently  performed  in  Madrid,  unless,  indeed,  they 
sang  the  Vorrei  Morir,  or  the  La  Stella  Confident  e,  or 
some  other  of  the  pieces  composed  by  the  Italians  for  the 
enjoyment  of  sympathetic  families  of  the  middle  classes. 

There  were,  finally,  also  those  of  mysterious  character, 
where  the  light  was  always  soberly  reduced  to  a  minimum, 
silent  and  sad  in  appearance ;  by  close  attention  one  might 
see  by  the  half-light  that  reigned  amid  the  leaves  of  the 
plants  the  form  of  some  loving  couple,  and  if  the  passer¬ 
by  walked  softly  or  paused,  perhaps  his  ear  might  catch 
the  soft,  tender  sound  of  a  kiss,  though  I  would  not  vouch 
for  it. 

Everywhere  the  strong  floods  of  light  that  poured  out 
from  the  patios,  the  noise  and  uproar  that  came  from 
out  the  grated  doors,  filled  the  street  with  animation,  and 
spread  through  the  city  an  atmosphere  of  cordiality  and 
gayety. 

It  was  the  life  of  the  south,  free,  gushing,  expansive, 
unafraid  of  the  curious  gaze  of  the  passer-by,  rather  de¬ 
sirous  of  it,  and  proud  of  satisfying  it,  where  still  is  spread 
abroad,  although  so  many  centuries  have  passed,  the  senti¬ 
ment  of  hospitality,  the  religion  of  the  Arabs. 

At  such  a  time  Seville  presents  a  magic  spectacle;  an 
enchantment  disturbing  to  the  mind  and  conducive  to 
visions.  It  seemed  as  if  one  were  present  in  a  strange, 
transparent  city,  an  immense  cosmorama  such  as  dis¬ 
turbs  our  fancy  when  we  are  children,  and  awakens  itj 


ARMANDO  PALACIO  VALDES 


75 

the  heart  irresistible  desires  to  fly  to  other  mysterious  and 
poetic  regions. 

I  breathed  intoxicating  odors ;  not  the  slightest  stir 
cooled  the  brow.  My  steps  grew  shorter  and  slower  as 
I  wandered  dizzily  through  the  confused  labyrinth  of 
streets,  all  lighted  up  with  gushing  floods  of  light,  echoing 
gayly  with  sounds  of  music,  vibrating  with  shouts  and  the 
merry  laughter  of  women. 

When  it  was  eleven  o’clock  my  feet  would  turn  swiftly 
toward  the  Calle  de  Argote  de  Molina,  till  I  reached 
Gloria’s  house.  Mystery  gave  our  interviews  an  infinite 
enchantment.  With  my  forehead  leaning  against  the  iron 
bars  of  the  grating,  feeling  my  mistress’s  gentle  breath 
on  my  cheek  and  the  touch  of  her  perfumed  hair,  I  let 
hours  pass  uncounted,  which  will  perhaps  be  the  happiest 
of  my  existence. 

Gloria  talked,  talked  an  endless  stream :  dazzled  by  the 
light  of  her  eyes,  which,  like  two  electric  accumulators, 
were  slowly  and  gently  magnetizing  me,  I  listened  to  her 
without  moving  an  eyelash,  delighted  by  her  sweet  and 
piquant  Andalusian  accent,  the  remembrance  of  which 
makes  more  than  one  Englishman  sigh  amid  the  fogs  of 
Britain. 

What  did  she  talk  about? 

I  hardly  know :  —  about  the  insignificant  happenings  of 
the  day,  of  the  trifles  of  life;  sometimes  of  the  future,  in¬ 
venting  a  thousand  contradictory  plans  which  made  me 
laugh ;  sometimes  again  of  the  events  that  had  taken  place 
in  the  convent.  I  enjoyed  immensely  hearing  her  tell 
about  the  tricks  which  she  had  performed  during  her 
school-days,  the  thousand  and  one  comic  or  melancholy 
incidents  that  had  taken  place  while  she  was  at  the  col¬ 
lege. 

As  a  girl  she  had  been  full  of  the  mischief,  she  frankly 
confessed.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  without  her  playing 
some  trick  on  the  Sisters.  The  sad  and  monotonous  life 
of  the  convent  was  not  for  her.  They  arose  very  early 
and  spent  half  an  hour  in  prayer  in  the  class-room;  they 
then  heard  mass.  On  going  out  they  were  allowed  to 
speak  to  each  other,  but  simply  to  exchange  the  greetings 
of  the  day.  At  recess,  or  the  hour  of  recreation,  as  they 


76 


ARMANDO  PALACIO  VALDES 


called  it,  they  were  also  allowed  to  talk.  Outside  of  these 
hours  they  were  forbidden  to  communicate,  but  she  never 
had  obeyed  this  order,  either  when  she  was  a  student,  or 
after  she  became  a  Sister. 

“  I  could  not,  my  son,  I  could  not ;  the  words  would 
crowd  upon  my  tongue,  and  would  have  to  be  spoken,  or 
I  should  burst.” 

On  one  occasion,  for  having  made  fun  of  the  Sister 
San  Onofre,  they  had  shut  her  up  in  the  garret;  from 
there  she  could  look  down  into  the  barracks,  and  hearing 
the  sentinel  cry :  “  Sentinel  on  guard,”  she  replied  at  the 
top  of  her  voice,  “On  guard!  ( alerta  estd).” 

This  caused  a  genuine  scandal,  and  brought  upon  her 
condign  punishment.  But  she  laughed  at  punishments, 
just  as  she  did  at  the  Sisters.  Many  times  she  had  been 
obliged  to  do  penance  by  entering  all  the  classes,  drop¬ 
ping  on  her  knees  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  making 
crosses  on  the  floor  with  her  tongue.  She  had  done  so, 
but  she  made  the  other  girls  laugh  with  her  grimaces. 

I  wanted  to  know  something  about  Mother  Florentina, 
for  what  the  French  nun  told  me  about  her  had  aroused 
my  curiosity. 

“  Ah  !  the  Mother  Florentina  was  very  kind ;  she  always 
called  us  Ulletas,  and  let  us  do  what  we  pleased,  except 
when  we  were  set  to  work.  .  .  .  Oh,  then  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  put  in  with  all  our  might;  she 
would  not  allow  the  least  particle  of  dust  in  our  rooms; 
she  kept  us  sweeping  until  the  floors  shone  like  a  mirror. 
You  know,  don’t'  you,  that  she  had  to  pay  dearly  for  that 
little  dance  at  Marmolejo?  She  was  retrograded  and 
obliged  to  ask  pardon  on  her  knees  of  the  whole  Sister¬ 
hood.  Poor  Mother !  for  our  fault,  I  should  say  —  for 
yours !  ” 

“  I  knew  that  she  was  no  longer  Mother  Superior ;  the 
nun  who  came  to  open  the  door  for  me  told  me  so ;  a 
smart  nun,  certainly,  with  very  stern  eyes  and  a  foreign 
accent.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  Sister  Desiree.” 

“  She  must  be  a  hard  one  to  get  along  with.” 

“Most  trying!  We  are  no  friends.  When  I  was  an 
interne  she  left  me  no  peace ;  till  one  day  came  the 


JUAN  VALERA  Y  ALCALA  GAL1AN0 


77 

thunder-clap,  you  know;  I  mean  I  almost  broke  her  head. 
From  that  time  she  became  as  pliable  as  a  glove.” 

The  hours  swiftly  sped,  but  we  heard  them  not',  nor 
wished  to  hear  the  strokes  of  the  clock  solemnly  sound¬ 
ing  in  the  silence  and  loneliness  of  the  night.  Still,  the 
ill-mannered  stroke  of  one  would  startle  us,  and  fill  us 
with  anxiety.  We  still  remain  for  some  little  time  talk¬ 
ing.  Half-past  one  sounds. 

“  Go,  go  !  ” 

“  Only  just  five  minutes  more.” 

The  five  minutes  pass,  and  then  five  more,  and  still  I 
do  not  move.  Then  Gloria  suddenly,  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence,  springs  up,  vexed  with  her  own  sweet  self, 
and  says  abruptly: 

“  Adios  !  hasta  manana  —  till  t'o-morrow  !  ” —  Sister 
Saint  Sulpice. 


^fffALERA  y  ALCALA  GALIANO,  Juan,  a 
r SMp  Spanish  statesman,  diplomat  and  novelist; 
“AAj  °  born  at  Cabra,  October  18,  1824;  died  at 
Madrid,  April  19,  1905.  He  studied  at  Granada,  be¬ 
came  secretary  of  legation  at  Naples  and  later  at  Dres¬ 
den,  Lisbon  and  St.  Petersburg.  In  1859  he  was  made 
Minister  of  Commerce  and  Agriculture.  After  serving 
as  ambassador  at  Frankfort,  he  took  part  in  the 
Spanish  revolution  of  1868.  Subsequently  he  was 
ambassador  to  Lisbon,  Washington,  Brussels  and 
Vienna.  He  was  also  made  a  member  of  the  Senate, 
the  Council  of  State  and  the  Spanish  Academy.  His 
writings  in  prose  fiction  have  assured  him  a  high  place 
in  literature.  His  Pepita  Jimenez  (1874),  marks  the 
revival  of  Spanish  fiction.  Among  his  later  works  are 
Dora  Luz  (1878);  Morsamor  (1899);  De  Rios  Ar¬ 
gentina  s  (1901)  ;  Ecos  Argentinos  (1901). 


73 


JUAN  VALERA  Y  ALCALA  GAL1AN0 


IN  THE  GLEN. 

My  father,  wishing  to  pay  off  to  Pepita  the  compliment 
of  her  garden  party,  invited  her  in  her  turn  to  make  a 
visit  to  our  country-house  of  the  Pozo  de  la  Solana. 
.  .  .  We  had  to  go  in  the  saddle.  As  I  have  never 

learned  to  ride  horseback,  I  mounted,  as  on  all  the  former 
excursions  with  my  father,  a  mule  which  Dientes,  our 
mule-driver,  pronounced  twice  as  good  as  gold,  and  as 
steady  as  a  hay-wagon.  .  .  .  Now  Pepita  Ximenez, 

whom  I  supposed  I  should  see  in  side-saddle  on  an  animal 
of  the  donkey  species  also, —  what  must  she  do  but  aston¬ 
ish  me  by  appearing  on  a  fine  horse  of  piebald  marking, 
and  full  of  life  and  fire.  It  did  not  take  me  long  to  see 
the  sorry  figure  I  should  cut,  jogging  along  in  the  rear 
with  fat  Aunt  Casilda  and  the  vicar,  and  to  be  mortified 
by  it.  When  we  reached  the  villa  and  dismounted,  I 
felt  relieved  of  as  great  a  load  as  if  it  was  I  that  had 
carried  the  mule,  and  not  the  mule  that  had  carried 
me.  .  .  . 

Bordering  the  course  of  the  brook,  and  especially  in 
the  ravines,  are  numerous  poplars  with  other  well-grown 
trees,  which,  in  conjunction  with  the  shrubbery  and  taller 
herbs,  form  dusky  and  labyrinthine  thickets.  A  thousand 
fragrant  sylvan  growths  spring  up  spontaneously  there; 
and  in  truth  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  wilder,  more 
secluded,  more  completely  solitary,  peaceful,  and  silent, 
than  that  spot.  In  the  blaze  of  noonday,  when  the  sun  is 
pouring  down  his  light  in  floods  from  a  sky  without  a 
cloud,  and  in  the  calm  warm  hours  of  the  afternoon 
siesta,  almost  the  same  mysterious  terrors  steal  upon  the 
mind  as  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night.  One  compre¬ 
hends  there  the  way  of  life  of  the  ancient  patriarchs, 
and  of  the  heroes  and  shepherds  of  primitive  tradition, 
with  all  the  apparitions  and  visions  they  were  wont  to 
have, —  now  of  nymphs,  now  of  gods,  and  now  of  angels, 
in  the  midst  of  the  brightness  of  day. 

In  the  passage  through  those  dusky  thickets,  it  came 
about  at  a  given  moment,  I  know  now  how,  that  Pepita 


JUAN  VALERA  Y  ALCALA  GALIANO 


79 


and  I  found  ourselves  side  by  side  and  alone.  All  the 
others  have  remained  behind. 

I  felt  a  sudden  thrill  run  over  all  my  body.  It  was  the 
very  first  time  I  had  ever  been  alone  with  that  woman ; 
the  place  was  extremely  solitary,  and  I  had  been  think¬ 
ing  but  now  of  the.  apparitions  —  sometimes  sinister, 
sometimes  winsome,  but  always  supernatural  —  that  used 
to  walk  at  noonday  in  the  sight  of  the  men  of  an  earlier 
time. 

Pepita  had  put  off  at1  the  house  her  long  riding-skirt, 
and  now  wore  a  short  one  that  did  not  hamper  the  grace¬ 
ful  lightness  of  her  natural  movements.  On  her  head 
she  had  set  a  charmingly  becoming  little  Andalusian 
shade-hat.  She  carried  in  her  hand  her  riding-whip ; 
and  somehow  my  fancy  struck  out  the  whimsical  conceit 
that  this  was  one  of  those  fairy  wands  with  which  the 
sorceress  could  bewitch  me  at  will,  if  she  pleased. 

I  do  not  shrink  from  setting  down  on  this  paper  de¬ 
served  eulogies  of  her  beauty.  In  that  wild  woodland 
scene,  it  seemed  to<  me  even  fairer  than  ever.  The  plan 
that  the  old  ascetic  saints  recommended  h>  us  as  a  safe¬ 
guard, — namely,  to  think  upon  the  beloved  one  as  all 
disfigured  by  age  and  sickness,  to  picture  her  as  dead, 
lapsing  away  in  corruption,  and  a  prey  to  worms, —  that 
picture  came  before  my  imagination  in  spite  of  my  will. 
I  say  “  in  spite  of  my  will,”  because  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  such  terrible  precaution  is  necessary.  No  evil 
thought  as  to  the  material  body,  no  untoward  suggestion 
of  the  malign  spirit,  at  that  time  disturbed  my  reason  nor 
made  itself  felt  by  my  senses  or  my  will. 

What  did  occur  to  me  was  a  line  of  reasoning,  con¬ 
vincing  at  least  in  my  own  mind,  that  quite  obviated  the 
necessity  of  such  a  step  of  precaution.  Beauty,  the 
product  of  a  divine  and  supreme  art,  may  be  indeed  but 
a  weak  and  fleeting  thing,  disappearing  perchance  in  a 
twinkling:  still  the  idea  and  essence  of  that  beauty  are 
eternal ;  once  apprehended  by  the  mind  of  man,  it  must 
live  an  immortal  life.  The  loveliness  of  that  woman, 
such  as  it  has  shown  itself  to  me  to-day,  will  vanish,  it 
is  true,  within  a  few  brief  years ;  that  wholly  charming 
body,  the  flowing  lines  and  contours  of  that  exquisite 


8o 


JUAN  VALERA  Y  ALCALA  GALIANO 


form,  that  noble  head  so  proudly  poised  above  the  slender 
neck  and  shoulders, —  all,  all  will  be  but  food  for  loath¬ 
some  worms;  but  though  the  earthly  form  of  matter 
is  to  change,  how  as  to  the  mental  concepting  of  that 
frame,  the  artistic  ideal,  the  essential  beauty  itself? 
Who  is  to  destroy  all  that?  Does  if  not  remain  in  the 
depths  of  the  Divine  Mind?  Once  perceived  and  known 
by  me,  must  it  not  live  forever  in  my  soul,  victorious 
over  age  and  even  over  death  ?  —  Pcpita  Ximenez. 

pepita’s  eyes. 

As  I  must  have  told  you  in  former  letters,  Pepita’s 
eyes,  though  green  like  those  of  Circe,  have  a  most  tran¬ 
quil  and  exemplary  expression.  One  would  decide  that 
she  was  not  conscious  of  the  power  of  her  eyes  at  all, 
nor  ever  knew  that  they  could  serve  for  any  other  pur¬ 
pose  than  simply  that  of  seeing  with.  When  her  gaze 
falls  upon  you,  its  soft  light  is  so  clear,  so  candid  and 
pure,  that  so  far  from  fomenting  any  wicked  thought,  it 
appears  as  if  it  favored  only  those  of  the  most  limpid 
kind.  It  leaves  chaste  and  innocent  souls  in  unruffled 
repose,  and  it  destroys  all  incentive  to  ill  in  those  that 
are  not  so.  Nothing  of  ardent  passion,  nothing  of  un¬ 
hallowed  fire,  is  there  in  the  eyes  of  Pepita.  Like  the 
calm,  mild  radiance  of  the  moon,  rather,  is  the  sweet 
illumination  of  her  glance. 

Well,  then  I  have  to  tell  you  now,  in  spite  of  all  the 
above,  that  two  or  three  times  I  have  fancied  I  caught 
an  instantaneous  gleam  of  splendor,  a  lightning-like  flash, 
a  devastating  leap  of  flame,  in  those  fine  eyes  when  they 
rested  upon  mine.  Is  this  only  some  ridiculous  bit  of 
vanity,  suggested  by  the  arch-fiend  himself?  I  think  it 
must  be.  I  wish  to  believe  that  it  is,  and  I  will  believe 
that  it  is. 

No,  it  was  not  a  dream,  it  was  not  the  figment  of  a 
mad  imagination,  it  was  but  the  sober  truth.  She  does 
suffer  her  eyes  to<  look  into  mine  with  the  burning  glance 
of  which  I  have  told  you.  Her  eyes  are  endowed  with  a 
magnetic  attraction  impossible  to  explain.  They  draw 
me  on,  they  undo  me,  and  I  cannot  withhold  my  own 


ARMINIUS  VAMBERV 


81 


from  them.  At  those  times  my  eyes  must  blaze  with  a 
baleful  flame  like  hers.  Thus  did  those  of  Amnon  when 
he  contemplated  Tamar;  thus  did  those  of  the  Prince  of 
Shechem  when  he  looked  upon  Dinah. 

When  our  glances  meet  in  that  way  I  forget  even  my 
God.  Her  image  instead  rises  up  in  my  soul,  victorious 
over  everything.  Her  beauty  shines  resplendent  beyond 
all  other  beauty;  the  joys  of  heaven  seem  to  me  of  less 
worth  than  her  affection,  and  an  eternity  of  suffering 
but  a  trifling  cost  for  the  incalculable  bliss  infused  into 
my  being  by  a  single  one  of  those  glances  of  hers,  though 
they  pass  quick  as  the  lightning’s  flash. 

When  I  return  to  my  dwelling,  when  I  am  alone  in 
my  chamber,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, —  then,  oh  then, 
all  the  horror  of  my  situation  comes  upon  me,  and  I  form 
the  best  of  resolutions, —  but  only  to  break  them  again 
forthwith. 

I  promise  myself  to  invent  a  pretext  of  sickness,  or  to 
seek  some  other  subterfuge,  no  matter  what,  in  order 
not  to  go  to  Pepita’s  house  on  the  succeeding  night ;  and 
yet  I  go,  just  as  if  no  such  resolution  had  been  taken.  .  .  . 

Not  alone  to  my  sight  is  she  so  delectable,  so  grateful, 
but  her  voice  also  sounds  in  my  ears  like  the  celestial 
music  of  the  spheres,  revealing  to  me  all  the  harmonies 
of  the  universe.  I  even  go  to  the  point  of  imagining 
that  there  emanates  from  her  form  a  subtile  aroma  of 
delicious  fragrance,  more  delicate  than  that  of  mint  by 
the  brook-sides,  or  than  wild  thyme  on  the  mountain 
slopes. —  Pepita  Ximenes. 


^g^i^AMBERY,  Arminius,  an  Hungarian  traveler 
M  and  historian ;  born  at  Szerdahely,  March  19, 
WxH  1832.  He  was  a  soldier  in  the  revolution  of 
1848,  was  seriously  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Comorn, 
and  after  the  war  had  to  escape  to  Turkey,  whence 
he  traveled  over  a  large  portion  of  Central  Asia.  He 
V cl.  XXIII.— 6 


82 


ARMIN1US  VAMBERY 


lived  many  years  in  Constantinople  and  in  1863-64 
visited  Persia,  Khiva,  Bokhara,  Samarkand  and  Pie- 
rat.  On  his  return  to  Hungary  he  became  Professor 
of  Oriental  Languages  and  Literature  at  Buda  Pesth. 
Among  his  principal  works  are  Travels  in  Central 
Asia  (1865);  Wanderings  and  Adventures  in  Persia 
(1867)  ;  Sketches  in  Central  Asia  (1868)  ;  History  of 
Bokhara  (1873)  ;  Central  Asia  and  the  Anglo-Russian 
Boundary  Question,  and  Islam  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen¬ 
tury  (1875)  5  Manners  in  Oriental  Countries  (1876)  ; 
Primitive 1  Civilization  of  the  Turko-Tartar  People 
(1879)  ;  Origin  of  the  Magyars  (1882)  ;  The  Turkish 
People  (1885)  ;  The  Future  Contest  for  India  (1886), 
and  various  philological  treatises,  including  a  German- 
Turkish  Dictionary.  His  works  are  very  popular  in 
England,  though  their  accuracy  has  been  seriously 
questioned 


ST.  STEPHEN,  THE  FIRST  KING  OF  HUNGARY. 

(Reigned  997-1038.) 

King  Stephen  led  the  Hungarian  nation  from  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  paganism  into  the  light  of  Christianity,  and  from 
the  disorders  of  barbarism  into  the  safer  path  of  western 
civilization.  Pie  induced  his  people  to  abandon  the  fierce 
independence  of  nomadic  life,  and  assigned  to  them  a 
place  in  the  disciplined  ranks  of  European  society  and  of 
organized  states.  Under  him,  and  through  his  exertions, 
the  Hungarian  people  became  a  western  nation.  Never 
was  a  change  of  such  magnitude,  and  we  may  add  such 
a  providential  change,  accomplished  in  so  short  a  time, 
with  so  little  bloodshed,  and  with  such  signal  success  as 
this  remarkable  transformation  of  the  Hungarian  people. 
The  contemporaries  of  this  great  and  noble  man,  those 
who  assisted  him  in  guiding  the  destinies  of  the  Hun¬ 
garian  nation,  gave  him  already  full  credit  for  the  wise 
and  patriotic  course  pursued  by  him,  and  the  Hungarian 


ARMINIUS  VAMBERY 


83 


nation  of  the  present  clay  still  piously  and  gratefully 
cherishes  his  memory.  To  the  Hungarians  of  to-day, 
although  eight  and  a  half  centuries  removed  from  St. 
Stephen,  his  fame  continues  to  be  a  living  one,  and  they 
still  fondly  refer  to  his  exalted  example,  his  acts,  his 
opinions,  and  admirations,  as  worthy  to  inspire  and  ad¬ 
monish  the  young  generations  in  their  country. 

This  need  be  no  matter  for  surprise,  for  at  no  period 
of  Hungary’s  history  has  her  political  continuity  been 
interrupted  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  her  lose  sight'  of 
the  noble  source  from  which  its  greatness  sprang.  No 
doubt  a  complete  change  has  taken  place  in  the  political 
and  social  order,  in  the  course  of  so  many  centuries, 
but  the  state  structure,  however  modified,  still  rests  upon 
the  deep  and  sure  foundations  laid  by  the  wisdom  of  her 
first  king.  One  day  in  the  year,  the  20th  of  August  — 
called  St.  Stephen’s  day  —  is  still  hallowed  to  his  mem¬ 
ory.  On  that  day  his  embalmed  right  hand  is  carried 
about  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity,  in  a  brilliant  pro¬ 
cession,  accompanied  by  religious  ceremonies,  through 
Ancient  Buda,  and  shown  to  her  populace.  The  kingdom 
of  Hungary  is  called  the  realm  of  St.  Stephen  to  this  day, 
the  Hungarian  kings  are  still  crowned  with  the  crown  of 
St.  Stephen,  and  the  nation  acknowledges  only  him  to  be 
its  king  whose  temples  have  been  touched  by  the  sacred 
crown.  The  Catholic  Church  in  Hungary,  although  it 
no  more  occupies  its  former  pre-eminent  position  in  the 
state,  still  retains  enough  of  power,  wealth,  and  splendor 
to  bear  ample  testimony  to  the  lavish  liberality  of  St. 
Stephen.  Thus  the  historian  meets  everywhere  with 
traces  of  his  benignant  activity,  and  whilst  the  fame  and 
saintliness  of  the  great  king  have  surrounded  his  name 
with  a  luminous  halo  in  the  annals  of  his  nation,  that 
very  brilliancy  has  prevented  from  coming  down  to  pos¬ 
terity  such  mere  terrestrial  and  every-day  details  as  would 
assist  in  drawing  his  portrait.  The  grand  outlines  of  his 
form  detach  themselves  vividly  and  sharply  from  the  dark 
background  of  his  age  —  but  there  is  a  lack  of  contem¬ 
porary  accounts  which  would  help  to  fill  up  these  outlines, 
and  the  legends  of  the  succeeding  generations  which  make 
mention  of  him  can  but  ill  supply  this  want,  for  they  re- 


84  FRANCIS  JANE  CROSBY  VAN  ALSTYNE 


gard  in  him  the  saint  only,  and  not'  the  man.  His  deeds 
alone  remain  to  guide  us  in  the  task  of  furnishing  a 
truthful  picture  of  the  founder  of  his  country,  and  well 
may  we  apply  to  him  the  words  of  Scripture,  that  the 
tree  shall  be  known  by  its  fruit. —  The  Story  of  the  Na¬ 
tions:  Hungary. 


ALSTYNE,  Francis  Jane  Crosby,  an 
American  poet  and  hymn  writer  ;  born  at  New 
York  in  1829.  She  was  blind  from  childhood, 
as  was  her  husband  Van  Alstyne.  The  marriage  of 
Miss  Crosby  to  Van  Alstyne  was  brought  about  in  the 
Home  of  the  Blind,  of  which  both  were  inmates,  in 
1858.  When  fifteen  she  wrote  the  following  verse, 
which  she  says  was  her  guiding  star  through  life,  and 
the  secret  of  her  cheerfulness : 

O  what  a  happy  soul  I  am, 

Although  I  cannot  see  ! 

I  am  resolved  that  in  this  world 
Contented  I  will  be. 

How  many  blessings  I  enjoy 
That  other  people  don’t; 

Whew !  To  weep  or  sigh  because  I  am  blind 
I  cannot  nor  I  won’t. 

She  taught  school  and  was  very  apt.  It  was  after 
this  that  she  turned  her  hand  to  song  writing.  She 
wrote  words  for  many  of  the  songs  of  George  F.  Root, 
the  well  known  composer.  Some  of  them  are  favor¬ 
ites  now,  among  others  Hazel  Dell;  Rosalie,  the  Prairie 
Flower;  Proud  World,  Goodby;  I'm  Going  Home; 
Honeysuckle  Glen;  and  There's  Music  in  the  Air. 


JOHN  VANBRUGH 


Some  of  her  cantatas  are  Flower  Queen  and  the  Pil¬ 
grim  Fathers. 

While  a  teacher  at  the  Home  for  the  Blind  Miss 
Crosby  met  Henry  Clay,  Presidents  Tyler  and  Van 
Buren,  General  Winfield  Scott  and  Governor  Seward. 

In  1844  a  volume  of  verses,  called  The  Blind  Girl 
and  Other  Poems,  was  published,  with  a  portrait  of 
the  writer.  In  1849,  Monterey  and  Other  Poems,  and 
in  1858  A  Wreath  of  Columbia  Flowers  followed. 

It  was  in  1864,  upon  the  advice  of  William  B.  Brad¬ 
bury,  the  famous  composer  of  sacred  music,  that  Miss 
Crosby  wrote  her  first  hymn.  It  began  thus  : 


We  are  going,  we  are  going, 
To  a  home  beyond  the  skies. 


Since  that  time  she  has  composed  over  3,000  hymns. 
The  hymn  that  has  brought  her  most  fame  is  Safe  in 
the  Arms  of  Jesus.  It  was  composed  in  1868. 

Others  of  her  hymns  are  Rescue  the  Perishing ; 
Jesus,  Iveep  Me  Near  the  Cross,  and  Keep  Thou  My 
Way,  0  Lord. 


ANBRUGH,  Sir  John,  an  English  dramatist; 


born  at  London  in  1666;  died  there,  March 


yQjUj  26,  1726.  He  was  of  Flemish  ancestry,  and 
was  educated  in  France.  He  entered  the  army  and 
became  captain,  but  resigned  and  devoted  himself  to 
architecture.  He  designed  Castle  Howard,  in  York¬ 
shire,  and  built  Blenheim,  the  residence  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough.  He  was  knighted  in  1714  and  made 
Comptroller  of  the  Royal  Works,  and  in  1716  became 


86 


JOHN  VANBRUGH 


Surveyor  of  the  Works  at  Greenwich  Hospital.  His 
plays  are  well  written  and  give  amusing  pictures  of 
contemporary  life.  Their  titles  are :  The  Relapse 
(1697)  ;  The  Provoked  Wife  (1697)  ;  Hdsop  (1698)  ; 
an  adaptation  of  Fletcher’s  Pilgrim  (1700);  Confed¬ 
eracy  (1705),  adaptations  from  Moliere’s  comedies, 
and  an  unfinished  comedy,  The  Journey  to  London, 
completed  by  Colley  Cibber. 

LOVELESS  AND  AMANDA. 

Love. —  How  true  is  that  philosophy,  which  says 
Our  heaven  is  seated  in  our  minds  ! 

Through  all  the  roving  pleasures  of  my  youth 
(Where  nights  and  days  seem  all  consumed  in  joy. 

Where  the  false  face  of  luxury 
Display’d  such  charms, 

As  might  have  shaken  the  most  holy  hermit. 

And  made  him  totter  at  his  altar), 

I  never  knew  one  moment’s  peace  like  this. 

Here,  in  this  little,  soft  retreat, 

My  thoughts  unbent  from  all  the  cares  of  life, 

Content'  with  fortune, 

Eased  from  the  grating  duties  of  dependence, 

From  envy  free,  ambition  under  foot, 

My  life  glides  on,  and  all  is  well  within. 

Enter  amanda. 

How  does  the  happy  cause  of  my  content. 

My  dear  Amanda?  [Meeting  her  kindly. 

You  find  me  musing  on  my  happy  state 

And  full  of  grateful  thoughts  to  Heaven  and  you. 

Aman. —  Those  grateful  offerings  Heaven  can’t  receive 
With  more  delight  than  I  do, 

Would  I  could  share  with  it  as  well 
The  dispensations  of  its  bliss ! 

That  I  might’  search  its  choicest  favors  out. 

And  shower  ’em  on  your  head  forever. 


JOHN  VANBRUGH  87 

Love. —  The  largest  boons  that  Heaven  thinks  fit  to 
grant, 

To  things  it  has  decreed  shall  crawl  on  earth, 

Are  in  the  gift  of  woman  form’d  like  you. 

Perhaps  when  time  shall  be  no  more, 

When  the  aspiring  soul  shall  take  its  flight 
And  drop  this  ponderous  lump  of  clay  behind  it, 

It  may  have  appetites  we  know  not'  of. 

And  pleasures  as  refined  as  its  desires  — 

But  till  that  day  of  knowledge  shall  instruct  me, 

The  utmost  blessing  that  my  thought  can  reach 

[Taking  her  in  his  arms. 
Is  folded  in  my  arms,  and  rooted  in  my  heart. 

Aman. —  There  let  it  grow  forever  ! 

Love. —  Well  said,  Amanda  —  let  it  be  forever  — 

Would  Heaven  grant  that - 

Aman. —  ’Twere  all  the  heaven  I’d  ask„ 

But  we  are  clad  in  black  mortality, 

And  the  dark  curtain  of  eternal  night 
At  last  must  drop  between  us. 

Love. —  It  must. 

That  mournful  separation  we  must  see, 

A  bitter  pill  it  is  to  all ;  but  doubles  its  ungrateful  taste, 
When  lovers  are  to  swallow  it. 

Aman. —  Perhaps  that  pain  may  only  be  my  lot. 

— The  Relapse. 

PICTURE  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  A  WOMAN  OF  FASHION. 

Sir  John  Brute,  in  the  “ Provoked  Wife”  disguised 
in  his  lady’s  dress,  joins  in  a  drunken  midnight  frolic, 
and  is  taken  by  the  Constable  and  Watchmen  before  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace. 

Justice.  Pray,  madam,  what  may  be  your  ladyship’s 
common  method  of  life?  if  I  may  presume  so  far. 

Sir  John.  Why,  sir,  that  of  a  woman  of  quality. 

Justice.  Pray,  how  may  you  generally  pass  your  time, 
madam?  Your  morning,  for  example? 

Sir  John.  Sir,  like  a  woman  of  quality.  I  wake  about 
two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  —  I  stretch,  and  make  a 
sign  for  my  chocolate.  When  I  have  drunk  three  cups, 


88 


JOHN  VANBRUGH 


I  slide  down  again  upon  my  back,  with  my  arms  over  my 
head,  while  my  two1  maids  put  on  my  stockings.  Then, 
hanging  upon  their  shoulders,  I’m  trailed  to  my  great 
chair,  where  I  sit  and  yawn  for  my  breakfast.  If  it  don’t 
come  presently,  I  lie  down  upon  my  couch,  to  say  my 
prayers,  while  my  maid  reads  me  the  playbills. 

Justice.  Very  well,  madam. 

Sir  John.  When  the  tea  is  brought  in,  I  drink  twelve 
regular  dishes,  with  eight  slices  of  bread  and  butter;  and 
half  an  hour  after,  I  send  to  the  cook  to  know  if  the 
dinner  is  almost  ready. 

Justice.  So,  madam. 

Sir  John.  By  that  time  my  head  is  half  dressed,  I 
hear  my  husband  swearing  himself  into  a  state  of  perdi¬ 
tion  that  the  meat’s  all  cold  upon  the  table ;  to  amend 
which  I  come  down  in  an  hour  more,  and  have  it  sent 
back  to  the  kitchen,  to  be  all  dressed  over  again. 

Justice.  Poor  man. 

Sir  John.  When  I  have  dined,  and  my  idle  servants 
are  presumptuously  set  down  at  their  ease  to  do  so  too, 
I  call  for  my  coach,  to  go  to'  visit  fifty  dear  friends,  of 
whom  I  hope  I  never  shall  find  one  at  home  while  I  live. 

Justice.  So  !  there’s  the  morning  and  afternoon  pretty 
well  disposed  of.  Pray,  how,  madam,  do>  you  pass  your 
evenings  ? 

Sir  John.  Like  a  woman  of  spirit,  sir;  a  great'  spirit. 
Give  me  a  box  and  dice.  Seven’s  the  main !  Oons,  sir, 
I  set  you  a  hundred  pound  !  Why,  do  you  think,  women 
are  married  now-a-days  to  sit  at  home  and  mend  nap¬ 
kins  ?  Oh,  the  Lord  help  your  head ! 

Justice.  Mercy  on  us,  Mr.  Constable!  What  will  this 
age  come  to  ? 

Constable.  What  will  it  come  to  indeed,  if  such 
women  as  these  are  not  set  in  the  stocks  ! 

FABLE. 

A  Band,  a  Bob-wig,  and  a  Feather, 

Attacked  a  lady’s  heart  together. 

The  Band  in  a  most  learned  plea, 

Made  up  of  deep  philosophy, 


JOHN  VANBRUGH 


89 


Told  her  if  she  would  please  to  wed 
A  reverend  beard,  and  take,  instead 
Of  vigorous  youth, 

Old  solemn  truth, 

With  books  and  morals,  into  bed, 

How  happy  she  would  be  ! 

The  Bob  he  talked  of  management, 

What  wondrous  blessings  Heaven  sent 
On  care,  and  pains,  and  industry: 

And  truly  he  must  be  so  free 
To  own  he  thought  your  airy  beaux, 

With  powdered  wig  and  dancing  shoes, 
Were  good  for  nothing  —  mend  his  soul! 

But  prate,  and  talk,  and  play  the  fool. 

He  said  ’twas  wealth  gave  joy  and  mirth, 
And  that  to  be  the  dearest  wife 
Of  one  who  laboured  all  his  life 
To  make  a  mine  of  gold  his  own, 

And  not  spend  sixpence  when  he’d  done, 
Was  heaven  upon  earth. 

j 

When  these  two  blades  had  done,  d’ye  see, 
The  Feather  —  as  it  might  be  me  — 

Steps,  sir,  from  behind  the  screen, 

With  such  an  air  and  such  a  mien  — 

Like  you,  old  gentleman  —  in  short, 

He  quickly  spoiled  the  statesman’s  sport 
It  proved  such  sunshine  weather, 

That  you  must  know,  at  the  first  beck 
The  lady  leaped  about  his  neck, 

And  off  they  went  together. 


90 


HENRY  JACKSON  VAN  DYKE 


DYKE,  Henry  Jackson,  an  American 
clergyman  and  poet ;  born  at  Germantown, 
Pa.,  November  io,  1852.  He  studied  at  the 
Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute,  and  afterward  at 
Princeton  College.  Pie  then  entered  the  Theological 
Seminary  at  Princeton,  and  having  graduated  there  in 
1877,  he  went  to  Germany  and  studied  at  the  Univer¬ 
sity  of  Berlin.  Before  leaving  Princeton,  he  edited  for 
a  time  the  Princeton  Book ,  and  was  corresponding  ed¬ 
itor  of  the  Presbyterian ,  published  in  Philadelphia.  He 
returned  to  America  in  1879  and  took  charge  of  a  Con¬ 
gregational  church  at  Newport;  and  in  1882  became 
pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Brick  Church  in  New 
York.  He  was  preacher  at  Harvard  University  in 
1891  and  1892;  and  in  1895  he  became  Lyman  Beecher 
Lecturer  at  Yale.  In  1900  he  became  Professor  of 
English  Literature  in  Princeton  University.  His  lit¬ 
erary  works,  besides  many  contributions  to  periodicals, 
include  The  Reality  of  Religion  (1884);  The  Story 
of  the  Psalms  (1887)  ;  The  National  Sin  of  Literary 
Piracy  (1888)  ;  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson  (1889)  ;  God 
and  Little  Children  (1890)  ;  Straight  Sermons  to 
Young  Men  and  Other  Human  Beings  (1893)  1  The 
Bible  as  It  Is  (1893);  The  Christ  Child  in  Art:  a 
Study  of  Interpretation  (1894)  ;  The  People  Respon¬ 
sible  for  the  Character  of  Their  Rulers  (1895),  and 
Responsive  Readings  (1895).  Other  works  are  His¬ 
toric  Presbyterianism  (1893);  Little  Rivers  (1895); 
That  Monster  (1896);  The  Higher  Critic  (1896); 
The  Gospel  for  an  Age  of  Doubt  (1897)  ;  The  Build¬ 
ers  and  Other  Poems  (1897);  Ships  and  Havens 
(1897);  Fisherman’s  Luck  (1899);  The  Toiling  of 


HENRY  JACKSON  VAN  DYKE  Qt 

Felix  (1900)  ;  The  Blue  Flower  (1901)  ;  The  Ruling 
Passion  (1902);  Music  and  Other  Poems  (1904); 
and  The  School  of  Life  (1905). 

THE  BREATH  OF  TIME. 

The  monuments  of  mortals 
Are  as  the  flower  of  the  grass : 

Through  Time’s  dim  portals 

A  voiceless,  viewless  wind  doth  pass ; 

And  where  it  breathes,  the  brightest  blooms  decay, 

The  forests  bend  to  earth  more  deeply  day  by  day, 

And  man’s  great  buildings  slowly  fade  away. 

One  after  one 

They  pay  to  that  dumb  breath 
The  tribute  of  their  death ; 

And  are  undone. 

The  towers  incline  to  dust, 

The  massive  girders  rust, 

The  domes  dissolve  in  air, 

The  pillars  that  upbear 
The  lofty  arches  crumble,  stone  by  stone, 

While  man  the  builder  looks  about  him  in  despair, 

For  all  his  works  of  pride  are  overthrown. 

—  From  The  Builders. 

ARMENIA. 

Stand  back,  ye  messengers  of  mercy !  Stand 
Far  off,  for  I  will  save  my  troubled  folk 
In  my  own  way.  So  the  false  Sultan  spoke ; 

And  Europe,  hearkening  to  his  base  command. 

Stood  still  to  see  him  heal  his  wounded  land. 

Through  blinding  snows  of  winter  and  through  smoke 
Of  burning  towns,  she  saw  him  deal  the  stroke 
Of  cruel  mercy  that  his  hate  had  planned. 

Unto  the  prisoners  and  the  sick  he  gave  « 

New  tortures,  horrible,  without  a  name ; 

Unto  the  thirsty,  blood  to  drink;  a  sword 
Unto  the  hungry ;  with  a  robe  of  shame 


92 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


He  clad  the  naked,  making  life  abhorred. 

He  saved  by  slaughter,  but  denied  a  grave. 

—  The  Independent,  March  5,  i8p6. 


8. AN  DYKE,  John  Charles,  an  American  art 
critic  and  librarian  ;  born  at  New  Brunswick, 
N.  J.,  April  21,  1856.  For  many  years  he 
studied  art  in  Europe,  has  lectured  at  various  univer¬ 
sities,  and  is  Professor  of  Art  at  Rutgers’s  College. 
In  1878  he  became  librarian  of  Sage  Library.  His 
works  are  Books  and  How  to  Use  Them  (1883)  ;  Prin¬ 
ciples  of  Art  (1887)  ;  Art  for  Art's  Sake  (1893)  ;  His¬ 
tory  of  Painting  (1893)  1  Old  Dutch  and  Flemish  Mas¬ 
ters  (1895)  ;  Modern  Flemish  Masters  (1896)  ;  Nature 
for  Its  Own  Sake  (1898);  Italian  Painting  (1901); 
Old  English  Masters  (1902)  ;  The  Meaning  of  Pictures 

(1903)- 

WHAT  A  BURNE-JONES  PICTURE  MEANS. 

“  The  words  of  an  artist  explaining  the  general  aim 
and  purpose  of  his  art  are  always  helpful  in  understand¬ 
ing  the  work  itself.  After  reading  the  letters  of  Millet 
and  Watts  we  comprehend  their  pictures  much  better, 
for  they  tell  us  what  was  their  point  of  view,  what  they 
strove  for  and  what  meaning  they  intended  to  convey. 
Fortunately,  we  have  written  testimony  that  will  explain 
Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones  and  his  view  of  art  with  equal 
clearness.  It  appears  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  a 
friend  years  ago,  with  perhaps  no  thought  that  it  would 
ever  be  seen  by  the  public  eye.  In  part  it  runs  thus : 
“  I  mean  by  a  picture  a  beautiful  romantic  dream  of 
something  that  never  was,  never  will  be ;  in  a  light  better 
than  any  light  that  ever  shone;  in  a  land  no  one  can 
define  or  remember,  only  desire;  and  the  forms  divinely 
beautiful  —  and  then  I  wake  up  with  the  waking  of 
Brunhild.” 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


93 


After  that  statement  no  one  could  possibly  think  of 
Burne-Jones  as  a  realist  or  an  academician  or  a  painter 
devoted  merely  to  exploiting  his  skill  of  hand.  He  was 
opposed  to  all  that.  The  forms  of  reality  or  of  tradition 
were  merely  the  means  of  suggesting  an  unreality.  For 
he  was  primarily  absorbed  with  “  a  beautiful  romantic 
dream  of  something  that  never  was.” 

With  his  poetic  temperament  he  early  fell  in  love  with 
the  classic  and  Biblical  traditions,  the  mediaeval  legends, 
the  old  romances,  the  fabled  stories  of  antiquity.  They 
were  the  starting  point  of  his  romantic  thoughts  —  the 
beginning  of  his  reveries  —  that  grew  into  pictorial  forms 
divinely  beautiful.  He  mused  over  the  Days  of  Creation, 
the  Garden  of  Pan,  the  story  of  Merlin,  the  tale  of  the 
Sleeping  Beauty.  He  saw  the  characters  he  loved  in  his 
mind’s  eye,  saw  them  drawn,  modeled  and  painted  as  they 
should  appear  in  art.  That  was  his  ideal.  Then  he  took 
up  his  brush  and  tried  to  paint  them  —  tried  to  realize 
this  ideal  upon  canvas.  That  produced  his  picture.  It 
also  produced  with  himself  what  he  has  called  “  the 
waking  of  Brunhild  ” —  that  is,  disappointment.  He 
never  could  realize  fully  what  he  saw  in  tne  mirror  of 
dreams.  The  figures  were  more  “  divinely  beautiful  ”  in 
his  vision  than  upon  his  canvas.  He  was,  however,  his 
own  severest  critic  in  this  respect. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  how  a  mind  so  poetically  en¬ 
dowed,  so  romantically  inclined,  would  see  material  fit 
for  its  purpose  in  the  old  English  ballads.  It  was  in  the 
Percy  Reliques  that  Burne-Jones  found  the  story  of  King 
Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid.  It  was  a  popular  tale 
with  the  early  dramatic  writers  and  often  alluded  to  as 
an  illustration  of  love  leveling  all  ranks.  For  it  seems 
that  King  Cophetua  was  a  reigning  prince  in  Africa  who 

“.  .  .  cared  not  for  women-kinde 
But  did  them  all  disdaine  ” 

until  from  his  palace  window  he  saw  pass  by  the  beggar 
maid  “  all  in  gray.”  Then  peace  of  mind  forsook  him. 
He  could  not  be  happy  without  her,  and  his  love  strug¬ 
gled  with  his  rank  until  one  eventful  day  when  he  hap- 


94 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


pened  to  be  out  walking.  The  beggars  followed  him  in  a 
drove  asking  alms.  He  dismissed  them  one  by  one  with 
money,  all  except  Penelophon : 

“  The  King  he  cal’d  her  back  againe, 

And  unto  her  he  gave  his  chaine ; 

And  said,  ‘  With  us  you  shal  remaine 
Till  such  time  as  we  dye.’ 

“  ‘  What  is  thy  name,  faire  maid?  ’  quoth  he: 

‘  Penelophon,  O  King/  quoth  she : 

With  that  she  made  a  lowe  courtsey, 

A  trim  one  as  I  weene. 

“  Thus  hand  in  hand  along  they  walke 
Unto  the  King’s  pallace ; 

The  King  with  courteous,  comly  talke 
This  beggar  doth  embrace. 

The  beggar  blusheth  scarlet  red, 

O  O'  7 

And  straight  againe  as  pale  as  lead. 

But  not  a  word  at  all  she  said, 

She  was  in  such  amaze.” 

And  they  were  wed,  and  the  beggar  maid 

.  .  behaved  herself  that  day 
As  if  she  had  never  walkt  the  way; 

She  had  forgot  her  gowne  of  gray, 

Which  she  did  weare  of  late.” 

The  tale  ends,  like  all  good  love  stories,  with  long  life 
and  much  happiness: 

“  Thus  they  led  a  quiet  life 
Duringe  their  princely  raigne, 

And  in  a  tombe  were  buried  both 
As  writers  sheweth  plaine. 

The  lords  they  tooke  it  grievously, 

The  ladies  tooke  it  heavily, 

The  commons  cryed  piteously. 

Their  death  to  them  was  paine.” 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


95 


The  story  is  certainly  romantic  enough  —  far  enough 
removed  from  the  actual  —  to>  suit  the  painter’s  purpose ; 
and  it  is  just  as  certainly  poetic.  And  yet  there  is  more 
romance  in  the  picture  than  in  the  poem,  more  pathos 
in  the  wondering  face  of  the  beggar  maid  than  the  tale 
tells  us.  This  is  not  merely  an  illustration  that  supple¬ 
ments  a  written  text,  but  it  is  a  distinct  creation.  The 
legendary  figures  that  barely  existed  in  a  few  lines  of  an 
old  ballad  are  here  brought  into  new  life  and  being. 
They  live  with  all  the  splendor  of  medisevalism.  The 
dramatic  scene  of  bringing  Penelophon  home  to  the  pal¬ 
ace  appears  before  us.  There  she  sits  on  the  King’s 
golden  throne,  lost  in  a  confused  whirl  of  thoughts, 
shrinking  into  her  beggar’s  garment  of  gray,  dazed  at 
the  splendor  of  her  surroundings.  And  there  sits  at  her 
feet  King  Cophetua  quite  willing  to  cast  his  kingdom 
and  crown  at  her  feet. 

The  very  mood  of  the  lovers  is  perhaps  caught  up  and 
repeated  in  a  low  melody  which  the  two<  youths  at  the 
railing  are  singing  —  a  melody  that  spreads  the  feeling 
of  pathos,  of  passion,  and  suggests  the  strange,  sweet 
sadness  of  romance.  Indeed,  the  picture  is  just  what 
Burne-Jones  described  it. 

But  while  this  bit  of  old  romance  is  far  enough  re¬ 
moved  from  the  actual,  Burne-Jones  has  not  seen  fit  to 
overlook  the  beauty  of  the  material.  He  intended  that 
the  picture  should  be  beautiful  in  more  than  the  tale  it 
told.  It  is  a  marvel  of  skillful  design  and  rich  color. 
The  King  himself  is  clad  in  glittering  blue-steel  armor, 
and  over  the  armor  is  a  mantle  of  blue  green  lined  with 
purple;  his  spear  and  shield  lean  against  the  steps  of 
the  dais  and  his  jewel-hilted  sword  rests  between  his 
knees. 

The  beggar  maid  in  her  mantle  of  gray,  which  but 
poorly  hides  her  bare  feet'  and  arms,  sits  upon  purple 
cushions.  She  is  fair  with  dull  golden  hair  and  light 
gray  eyes.  In  her  right  hand  she  holds  some  purple 
anemones.  The  chair  of  state  is  raised  on  a  flight  of 
steps  with  an  open  balustrade  around  the  double  seat, 
and  the  whole  is  covered  with  beaten  metal-work  in 
gold,  showing  reliefs  of  lions  and  other  animals  in  the 


96 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


Assyrian  style.  “  Myrtle  branches  are  seen  through  the 
rails  on  the  left,  and  an  orange  tree  laden  with  fruit  and 
blossoms  stands  behind  where  two  youths  lean  on  the 
coping  singing  from  an  illuminated  score.  They  wear 
long  gowns  of  red  and  blue  and  changing  green  and  pink. 
Through  a  partly  curtained  window  in  the  background 
are  seen  the  ramparts  of  the  castle,  a  stretch  of  forest 
land  and  a  quiet  evening  sky.” 

From  top  to  bottom  the  picture  is  composed,  drawn, 
executed  to  please  the  eye.  And  yet  it  is  odd,  archaic- 
looking.  Its  drawing  is  constrained  and  somewhat  angu¬ 
lar,  its  composition  is  arbitrary  rather  than  realistic,  and 
its  blue-green  tone  of  color  is  morbid.  Undeniably,  it 
has  what  the  mob  calls  “  a  queer  look.”  It  harks  back 
to  Crivelli  or  Mantegna  and  in  some  respects  makes  one 
think  of  Pinturiccio  or  Botticelli.  That  is  the  inherit¬ 
ance  of  Pre-Raphaelitism,  of  which  Burne-Jones  was  a 
late  exponent.  The  mystery  and  wonder  with  the  strange 
composition  and  color  were  the  necessary  result  of  his 
teaching  under  Rossetti.  But  in  the  years  to  come,  when 
this  odd  look  has  passed  away  and  the  affectation  and 
strained  effort  of  Pre-Raphaelitism  are  forgotten,  it'  is  a 
question  if  the  splendid  decorative  workmanship  of  such 
a  panel  as  this  will  not  be  regarded  with  the  same  admi¬ 
ration  that  we  to-day  bestow  upon  Botticelli’s  Allegory 
of  Spring.  The  workmanship  alone  with  its  decorative 
result  will  keep  the  picture  from  oblivion.  The  story 
may  pass  and  the  types  become  obsolete  and  the  senti¬ 
ment  be  considered  mere  sentimentality;  but  the  skill  of 
the  craftsman  will  endure. 

And  yet  this  is  not'  painting  in  the  Velasquez  sense. 
There  is  no  free  swing  of  the  brush.  Everything  is 
measured  and  weighed  with  the  greatest  nicety  and  exe¬ 
cuted  with  the  greatest  care.  It  was  a  belief  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  that  if  the  painter  looked  after  the  facts  the 
beauty  would  look  after  itself.  And  so  we  have  in  this 
picture  by  Burne-Jones  a  surface  executed  with  the  ex¬ 
actness  of  a  Japanese  lacquer  or  a  precious  piece  of 
cloisonne.  The  brush  is  small  and  the  touch  minute. 
The  King’s  crown,  armor  and  jeweled  sword,  the  gold 
of  the  steps,  the  beaten  reliefs  of  lions  and  peacocks,  the 


JOHN  CHARLES  VAN  DYKE 


97 


patterns  of  the  cloth,  the  flowers  and  fruits,  are  all 
wrought  with  the  skill  of  a  goldsmith.  And  the  total 
result  of  it  is  not  a  finical  or  petty  surface,  but  something 
that  impresses  one  by  its  richness.  The  blue-green  and 
purple  notes  of  color  which  are  repeated  throughout  the 
picture  rather  help  on  the  feeling  of  regal  splendor.  The 
total  effect  seems  to  carry  us  back  into  knightly  days, 
and  brings  up  before  us  the  barbaric  glory  of  an  African 
prince  in  the  olden  time. 

Of  course  this  refinement  of  surface,  this  devotion  to 
the  painting  of  textures,  is  counterbalanced  to>  some  ex¬ 
tent  by  harshness  in  the  contours.  The  drawing  is  sharp 
and  one  feels  the  edges.  The  golden  throne  seems  want¬ 
ing  in  the  sense  of  solidity;  the  King  himself,  for  all  his 
splendor,  seems  brittle,  and  the  beggar  maid  is  seemingly 
petrified.  Again,  the  formality  of  the  composition  has 
resulted  in  a  somewhat  huddled  appearance.  There  is 
more  material  in  the  panel  than  it  will  comfortably  hold. 
These  are  some  of  the  things  that  give  it  “  a  queer  look  ” 
to  our  eyes,  though  we  have  gathered  from  the  painter’s 
own  words  that  he  never  intended  that  the  picture  should 
have  a  pronounced  realistic  look. 

Pre-Raphaelitism,  from  which  Burne-Jones  descended, 
was  started  in  England  about  1847  by  Rossetti,  Holman 
Hunt  and  Sir  John  Millais,  in  connection  with  several 
poets  and  sculptors  —  seven  in  all.  Mr.  Ruskin  was  its 
advocate  and  had  much  to  do  with  bringing  it  into  public 
notice.  It  was  in  effect  an  emulation  of  the  sincerity, 
the  loving  care  and  the  scrupulous  exactness  in  matters 
of  truth  that  characterized  the  Italian  painters  before 
Raphael.  It  was  an  attempted  return  to  the  veracity  of 
the  early  masters  —  Botticelli,  Bellini,  Mantegna  and 
their  contemporaries.  With  it  there  was  mingled  a 
moral  and  religious  pose  and  a  whatnot  of  mysticism 
and  morbidity  comparable  to  that'  of  Botticelli.  It  was 
an  honest  effort  pushed,  perhaps,  to  an  extreme.  The 
members  of  the  brotherhood  did  not  continue  together 
for  any  length  of  time,  but  the  influence  of  the  movement 
was  far-reaching. 

Burne-Jones  was  a  pupil  of  Rossetti,  the  real  founder 
of  Pre-Raphaelitism,  and  from  him  he  got  much  of  the 
Vol.  XXIII.— 7 


98 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


mystic,  the  dreamy  and  the  melancholy  quality  of  his  art. 
He  was  born  in  Birmingham  in  1833  and  educated  at 
King  Edward’s  School,  in  that  town.  He  left  Oxford 
before  graduation  and  joined  William  Morris  in  London. 
He  met  Rossetti  in  1855,  and  under  his  influence,  with 
Morris,  Swinburne  and  others  for  friends,  he  was  soon 
launched  on  a  career.  Recognition  came  to  him  late  but 
was  substantial  enough  toward  the  end.  The  Royal 
Academy  made  him  an  Associate  —  a  something  which 
he  afterward  resigned;  Oxford  gave  him  the  degree  of 
D.  C.  L.,  and  France  gave  him  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  He  was  made  a  baronet  in  1894.  When  he 
died,  in  1898,  the  pictures  in  his  studio  sold  for  $150,000. 
But  long  before  that  he  had  won  his  spurs  with  the  paint¬ 
ers  and  was  respected  and  honored  as  an  artist  of  un¬ 
common  genius. 

The  King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid  was  painted 
in  1884  and  is  a  very  large  canvas,  measuring  twelve  feet 
in  height  by  nine  feet  in  width.  It  hangs  to-day  in  the 
National  Gallery  of  British  Art,  and  is  considered  not 
only  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  collection  but  possi¬ 
bly  the  most  Complete  picture  that  Burne-Jones  ever 
painted. —  Ladies’  Home  Journal. 


Sy^-^AUGHAN,  Henry,  a  Welsh  poet  and  mystic; 

born  at  Skethiog-on-Usk  in  1621  ;  died  there, 
April  23,  1695.  He  was  known  as  “  the 
Silurist,”  from  his  being  born  in  South  Wales,  the 
country  of  the  Silures.  He  had  a  twin  brother 
Thomas,  known  as  “  the  Rosicrucian,”  with  whom  he 
entered  Jesus  College,  Oxford,  in  1638;  having  been 
privately  educated  since  1632  by  the  rector  of  Llan- 
gattock.  It  was  early  in  the  great  rebellion  that  the 
brothers  went  to  Oxford ;  King  Charles  kept  his  court 
there,  and  the  young  Vaughans  were  hot  Royalists. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


99 


Thomas  bore  arms,  and  Henry  was  imprisoned. 
Thomas,  after  many  trials,  returned  to  Oxford,  de¬ 
voted  his  life  to  alchemy,  and  wrote  books  on  such 
subjects  as  the  state  of  man  after  death,  “grounded 
on  proto-chemistry  ” ;  the  discovery  of  the  true 
“  caelum  terra?  ”  and  the  like.  At  what  time  Henry 
left  the  university  is  not  known ;  but  it  was  evidently 
after  he  had  studied  some  time  in  London  and  had 
been  introduced  into  the  society  of  men  of  letters  that 
he  published  his  first  volume,  Poems  with  the  Tenth 
Satire  of  Juvenal  Englished  (1646).  He  published 
his  collection  of  sacred  poems,  Silex  Scintillans,  in 

1650.  His  Olor  Iscanus,  the  Swan  of  Usk,  a  collec¬ 
tion  of  secular  verses,  was  published  by  his  brother  in 

1651.  A  mystical  treatise  in  prose,  The  Mount  of 
Olives ,  followed  in  1652 ;  and  then  two  prose  transla¬ 
tions,  Flores  Solitudinis,  in  1654,  and  Her  metical 
Physick,  in  1655.  In  1678  an  Oxford  friend  collected 
the  poems  of  Vaughan’s  middle  life  in  a  volume  en¬ 
titled  Thalia.  Rediviva.  One  of  the  best  of  his  single 
poems  is  entitled  The  Retreate. 

The  poems  of  Vaughan  evince  considerable  strength 
and  originality  of  thought  and  copious  imagery,  though 
tinged  with  a  gloomy  sectarianism,  and  marred  by 
crabbed  rhymes.  Campbell  scarcely  does  justice  to 
Vaughan  in  styling  him  one  of  the  harshest  even  of 
the  inferior  order  of  the  school  of  conceit,”  though  he 
admits  that  he  has  “  some  few  scattered  thoughts  that 
meet  our  eye  amidst  his  harsh  pages,  like  wild-flowers 
on  a  barren  heath.”  As  a  sacred  poet,  Vaughan  has 
an  intensity  of  feeling  only  inferior  to  Crashaw.  He 
had  a  dash  of  Celtic  enthusiasm.  He  does  not  seem 
to  have  attained  to  a  competence  in  either,  for  he  com- 


100 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


plains  much  of  the  proverbial  poverty  and  suffering 
of  poets : 

As  they  were  merely  thrown  upon  the  stage, 

The  mirth  of  fools,  and  legends  of  the  age. 

In  his  latter  days,  Vaughan  grew  deeply  serious  and 
devout,  and  published  his  Sacred  Poems ,  which  con¬ 
tain  his  happiest  effusions.  The  poet  was  not  with¬ 
out  hopes  of  renown,  and  he  wished  the  river  of  his 
native  vale  to  share  in  the  distinction : 

When  I  am  laid  to  rest  hard  by  thy  streams, 

And  my  sun  sets  where  first  it  sprang  in  beams, 

I'll  leave  behind  me  such  a  large  kind  light' 

As  shall  redeem  thee  from  oblivious  night, 

And  in  these  vows  which  —  living  yet  —  I  pay, 
Shed  such  a  precious  and  enduring  ray. 

As  shall  from  age  to  age  thy  fair  name  lead 
Till  rivers  leave  to  run,  and  men  to  read! 

EARLY  RISING  AND  PRAYER. 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul  leave 
To  do  the  like;  our  bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirit’s  duty:  true  hearts  spread  and  heave 
Unto  their  God,  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun : 

Give  Him  thy  first  thoughts  then,  so  shalt  thou  keep 
Him  company  all  day,  and  in  Him  sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up;  prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day :  there  are  set  awful  hours 
’Twixt  heaven  and  us;  the  manna  was  not  good 
After  sunrising;  far  day  sullies  flowers: 

Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut, 

And  heaven’s  gate  opens  when  the  world’s  is  shut. 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures;  note  the  hush 
And  whisperings  amongst  them.  Not  a  spring 
Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning-hymn;  each  bush 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


IOI 


And  oak  doth  know  I  am.  Canst  thou  not  sing? 

O  leave  thy  cares  and  follies !  Go'  this  way, 

And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 

Serve  God  before  the  world;  let  Him  not  go 
Until  thou  hast  a  blessing;  then  resign 
The  whole  unto  Him,  and  remember  who 
Prevailed  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine; 

Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  weep  for  thy  sin, 

Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 

Mornings  are  mysteries ;  the  first  the  world’s  youth, 
Man’s  resurrection,  and  the  future’s  bud, 

Shroud  in  their  births;  the  crown  of  life,  light,  truth, 
Is  styled  their  star ;  the  stone  and  hidden  food ; 

Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 
Should  move  —  they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

When  the  world’s  up,  and  every  swarm  abroad, 

Keep  well  thy  temper,  mix  not  with  each  clay; 

Despatch  necessities;  life  hath  a  load 
Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may; 

Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee;  let  the  heart 
Be  God’s  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 

THE  RAINBOW. 

Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  still  in  view 
We  slight  as  old  and  soiled,  though  fresh  and  new. 
How  bright  wert  thou  when  Shem’s  admiring  eye 
Thy  burnished  flaming  arch  did  first  descry ; 

When  Zerah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, 

The  youthful  world’s  gray  fathers,  in  one  knot 
Did  with  intentive  looks  watch  every  hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower ! 
When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and  fair; 
Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air; 

Rain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and  pours 
Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  milk  on  grass  and  flowers. 
Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine,  the  sure  tie 
Of  thy  Lord’s  hand,  the  object  of  his  eye ! 


102 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 

Distinct,  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  Him, 

Who  looks  upon  thee  from  his  glorious  throne, 

And  minds  the  covenant  betwixt  all  and  One. 

THE  STORY  OF  ENDYMI0N. 

(Written  after  reading  M.  Gombauld’s  romance  of 

“  Endymion.” 

Eve  read  thy  soul’s  fair  night-piece,  and  have  seen 
The  amours  and  courtship  of  the  silent  queen ; 

Her  stolen  descents  to  earth,  and  what  did  move  her 
To  juggle  first  with  heaven,  then  with  a  lover; 

With  Latmos’  louder  rescue,  and  (alas!) 

To  find  her  out,  a  hue  and  cry  in  brass; 

Thy  journal  of  deep  mysteries,  and  sad 

Nocturnal  pilgrimage;  with  thy  dreams,  clad 

In  fancies  darker  than  thy  cave ;  thy  glass 

Of  sleepy  draughts  ;  and  as  thy  soul  did  pass 

In  her  calm  voyage,  what  discourse  she  heard 

Of  spirits;  what  dark  groves  and  ill-shaped  guard 

Ismena  led  thee  through ;  with  thy  proud  flight 

O’er  Periardes,  and  deep-musing  night 

Near  fair  Eurotas’  banks;  what  solemn  green 

The  neighbour  shades  wear;  and  what  forms  are  seen 

In  their  large  bowers ;  with  that  sad  path  and  seat 

Which  none  but  light-heeled  nymphs  and  fairies  beat; 

Their  solitary  life,  and  how  exempt 

From  common  frailty  —  the  severe  contempt 

They  have  of  man  —  their  privilege  to  live 

A  tree  or  fountain,  and  in  that  reprieve 

What  ages  they  consume:  with  the  sad  vale 

Of  Diophania;  and  the  mournful  tale 

Of  the  bleeding,  vocal  myrtle :  these  and  more, 

Thy  richer  thoughts,  we  are  upon  the  score 
To  thy  rare  fancy  for.  Nor  dost  thou  fall 
From  thy  first  majesty,  or  ought  at  all 
Betray  consumption.  Thy  full  vigorous  bays 
Wear  the  same  green,  and  scorn  the  lean  decays 
Of  style  or  matter;  just  as  I  have  known 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


Some  crystal  spring,  that  from  the  neighbour  dowfc 
Derived  her  birth,  in  gentle  murmurs  steal 
To  the  next  vale,  and  proudly  there  reveal 
Her  streams  in  louder  accents,  adding  still 
More  noise  and  waters  to  her  channel,  till 
At  last,  swollen  with  increase,  she  glides  along 
The  lawns  and  meadows,  in  a  wanton  throng 
Of  frothy  billows,  and  in  one  great  name 
Swallows  the  tributary  brooks"  drowned  fame. 

Nor  are  they  mere  inventions,  for  we 
In  the  same  piece  find  scattered  philosophy, 

And  hidden,  dispersed  truths,  that  folded  lie 
In  the  dark  shades  of  deep  allegory, 

So  neatly  weaved,  like  arras,  they  descry 
Fables  with  truth,  fancy  with  history. 

So  that  thou  hast,  in  this  thy  curious  mould, 

Cast  that  commended  mixture  wished  of  old, 

Which  shall  these  contemplations  render  far 
Less  mutable,  and  lasting  as  their  star; 

And  while  there  is  a  people,  or  a  sun, 

Endymion’s  story  with  the  moon  shall  run. 

TIMBER. 

Sure  thou  didst  flourish  once,  and  many  springs, 

Many  bright  mornings,  much  dew,  many  showers, 
Passed  o’er  thy  head ;  many  light'  hearts  and  wings 
Which  now  are  dead,  lodged  in  thy  living  towers. 

And  still  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies, 

Fresh  groves  grow  up,  and  their  green  branches  shoot 
Towards  the  old  and  still  enduring  skies, 

While  the  low  violet  thrives  at  their  root. 

NIGHT  AND  NICODEMUS. 

Most  blessed  believer  he ! 

Who  in  that  land  of  darkness  and  blinde  eyes 
Thy  long  expected  healing  wings  could  see, 

‘  When  thou  didst  rise; 


104 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


And,  what  can  never  more  be  done, 

Did  at  midnight  speak  with  the  Sun ! 

O  who  will  tell  me  where 
He  found  thee  at  that  dead  and  silent  hour  ? 

What  hallow’d,  solitary  ground  did  bear 
So  rare  a  flower; 

Within  whose  sacred  leaves  did  lie 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity? 

No  mercy-seat  of  gold, 

No  dead  and  dusty  Cherub,  nor  carved  stone, 

But  his  own  livings  works,  did  my  Lord  hold 
And  lodge  alone ; 

Where  trees  and  herbs  did  watch  and  peep 
And  wonder,  while  the  Jews  did  sleep. 

Dear  night!  this  world’s  defeat; 

The  stop  to  busie  fools;  care’s  check  and  curb; 

The  day  of  Spirits ;  my  soul’s  calm  retreat 
Which  none  disturb ! 

Christ’s  progress  and  his  prayer-time; 

The  hours  to  which  high  Heaven  doth  chime. 

God’s  silent,  searching  flight : 

When  my  Lord’s  head  is  filled  with  dew;  and  all 
His  locks  are  wet  with  the  clear  drops  of  night ; 
His  still,  soft  call; 

His  knocking  time;  the  soul’s  dumb  watch, 
When  Spirits  their  Fair  Kindred  catch. 

Were  my  loud,  evil  days, 

Calm  and  undaunted  as  is  Thy  dark  Tent, 

Whose  peace  but  by  some  Angel’s  wing  or  voice 
Is  seldom  rent; 

Then  I  in  Heaven  all  the  long  year 
Would  keep,  and  never  wander  here. 

—  From  Silix  Scintillans . 

t*  r*  .-  ‘  •  *v  •  *  ■  0  » 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


105 


DEATH. 

Though  since  thy  first  sad  entrance 
By  just  Abel’s  blood, 

’Tis  now  six  thousand  years  well  nigh, 

And  still  thy  sovereignty  holds  good; 

Yet  by  none  art  thou  understood. 

We  talk  and  name  thee  with  much  ease. 

As  a  tryed  thing, 

And  every  one  can  slight  his  lease, 

As  if  it  ended  in  a  Spring, 

Which  shades  and  bowers  doth  rent-free  bring. 

To  thy  dark  land  these  heedless  go. 

But  there  was  One 

Who'  search’d  it  quite  through  to  and  fro, 

And  then,  returning  like  the  Sun, 

Discover’d  all  that  there  is  donQ. 

And  since  his  death  we  thoroughly  see 
All  thy  dark  way; 

Thy  shades  but  thin  and  narrow  be, 

Which  his  first  looks  will  quickly  fray ; 

Mists  make  but  triumphs  for  the  day. 

—  From  Silex  Scintillans. 

EARLY  INNOCENCE. 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shin’d  in  my  Angel-infancy  ! 

Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  Celestiall  thought; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walkt  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 

And  looking  back,  at  that  short'  space, 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face; 

When  on  some  gilded  Cloud  or  flowre 


io6 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  houre, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinfule  sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispence 
A  sev’rall  sinne  to  ev’ry  sence, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dresse 
Bright  shootes  of  everlastingness. 

O,  how  I  long  to  travell  back, 

And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 

That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plaine, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  traine ; 

From  whence  th’  Inlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palme  trees. 

—  From  The  Retreate. 

THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ! 

Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear; 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove  — 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  v/hich  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun’s  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days ; 

My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope  !  and  high  humility  ! 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death  —  the  jewel  of  the  just  — 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark ! 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


107 


What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird’s  nest  may  know, 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 

But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there, 

But  whe'n  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room, 

She’ll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 
Created  glories  under  thee  ! 

Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass ; 

Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


THE  MORNING  WATCH. 

O  Joyes  !  Infinite  Sweetness  !  with  what  flowers 
And  shoots  of  glory  my  soul  breakes  and  buds  ! 

All  the  long  houres 
Of  night  and  rest, 

Through  the  still  shrouds 
Of  sleep  and  clouds, 

This  dew  fell  on  my  breast ; 

O  how  it  Blonds , 

And  Spirits  all  my  Earth  !  Heark !  In  what  Rings 
And  Hymning  Circulations  the  quick  world 
Awakes  and  sings  ! 

The  rising  winds, 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


io8 


And  falling  springs, 

Birds,  beasts,  all  things 
Adore  him  in  their  kinds. 

Thus  all  is  hurled 

In  sacred  Hymnes  and  Order  the  great  Chime 
And  Symphony  of  nature.  Prayer  is 
The  world  in  tune, 

A  spirit-voyce, 

And  vocall  joyes, 

Whose  Eccho  is  Heaven’s  blisse. 

O  let  me  climbe 

When  I  lye  down.  The  pious  soul  by  night 
Is  like  a  clouded  starre,  whose  beames  though  said 
To  shed  their  light 
Under  some  cloud, 

Yet  are  above, 

And  shine  and  move 
Beyond  that  mystic  shrowd. 

So  in  my  Bed, 

That  curtain’d  grave,  though  sleep,  like  ashes,  hide 
My  lamp  and  life,  both  shall  in  thee  abide. 

—  Silex  Scintillans. 


PEACE. 

My  Soul,  there  is  a  Countrie 
Afar  beyond  the  stars, 

Where  stands  a  winged  Sentrie 
All  skilful  in  the  wars. 

There,  above  noise  and  danger. 

Sweet  peace  sits,  crowned  with  smiles. 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 
Commands  the  beauteous  files. 

He  is  thy  gracious  friend 
And  (O  my  Soul,  awake!) 

Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 

If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  growes  the  flowre  of  peace. 

The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress  and  thy  ease. 


JEAN  DE  LA  F RES N AYE  VAUQUELIN  109 

Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 

But  One,  who  never  changes, 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 

— From  Olor  Iscanus,  the  Swan  of  Usk. 


S^AUQUELIN,  Jean  de  la  Fresnaye,  a  French 
>  poet;  born  at  La  Fresnaye,  near  Falaise,  in 
J  1 535 ;  died  at  Caen  in  1607.  He  followed 
for  a  time  the  profession  of  arms ;  then  was  Advocate 
Royal  and  Lieutenant-General  under  Henry  III.,  and 
finally  President  of  the  Presideal  bench  at  Caen  under 
Henry  IV.  The  CEuvres  Poetiques  of  Vauquelin  con¬ 
tain  many  sportive  songs  and  other  light  pieces  which 
are  read  with  pleasure.  He  was  the  first  writer  of% 
idyls  in  French  verse,  and  is  considered  as  the  real 
founder  of  French  satire,  which  he  redeemed  from  the 
grossness  that  had  hitherto  characterized  the  produc¬ 
tions  that  went  under  that  name.  His  F oresteries, 
which  he  began  to  publish  at  the  age  of  twenty,  shows 
the  same  qualities  which  are  found  more  fully  devel¬ 
oped  in  his  Idillies  —  qualities  which  are  summed  up 
by  the  author  himself  in  the  descriptive  phrase,  "  la 
Nature  en  chemise ”  Some  of  his  sonnets,  political 
and  religious,  are  of  an  elevated  sentiment.  His  Art 
Poetique  is  rude  in  style,  but  interesting  for  the  blunt 
novelty  of  its  ideas. 


MIDSUMMER. 

Shady  valleys,  tumbling  floods, 
Crystal  fountains,  lofty  woods, 
Where  Philanon  hath  oft  presst 


no  JEAN  DE  LA  F RES N AYE  VAUQUELIN 


Lively  Phillis  to  his  breast, 

Blest  be  ye,  and  never  air 
Strip  your  winter  branches  bare ; 

Lovely  valleys,  parching  heat 
Never  soil  your  green  retreat; 

Never  hoof  of  herd  uncouth, 

Fountains,  break  your  margins  smooth; 
Streams,  your  windings  never  lie 
By  the  dog-star  scorched  and  dry; 

Never  woodman’s  axe  intrude, 

Forests,  on  your  solitude; 

Nor  the  wolf  be  ever  here 

To  scare  your  flocks  with  nightly  fear; 

Still  the  Nymphs,  a  holy  choir, 

To  your  haunts  for  peace  retire; 

Pan  himself,  with  you  to  dwell, 

Bid  his  Msenalus  farewell. 

—  From  Les  Idillies. 

TITYRUS’  HARP. 

The  harp  that  whilom  on  the  reedy  shore 
Of  Mincius,  to  the  listening  shepherds  sung 
Such  strains  as  never,  haply,  or  before 

Or  sithence,  ’mid  the  mountain  cliffs  have  rung 
Of  Msenalus,  or  on  Lycaeus  hoar; 

And  sounded  next,  to  bolder  music  strung, 

The  gifts  of  Pales,  and  what  perils  bore, 

What  toils  achiev’d,  that  Phrygian  goddess-sprung, 
Now  on  an  aged  oak,  making  the  gloom 

More  awful,  hangs;  where,  if  the  wind  have  stirr’d, 
Seems  as  a  proud  and  angry  voice  were  heard : 

“  Let  none  with  universe  hardiment  presume 
To  touch  me;  for,  once  vocal  at  command 
Of  Tityrus,  I  brook  no  meaner  hand.” 

—  Free  Translation  from  Imitation  of  Costanzo. 


THOMAS  VAUX 


in 


AUX,  Thomas,  Lord,  an  English  poet ;  born  at 
Harrowden,  Northamptonshire,  in  1510;  died 
in  1562.  He  was  the  son  of  Nicholas  Vaux, 
a  distinguished  statesman  and  warrior  who  was  cre¬ 
ated  a  baron  by  Henry  VIII.,  and  from  whom  is  de¬ 
scended  the  present  Baron  Vaux.  Upon  the  attain¬ 
ment  of  his  majority  he  took  his  seat  in  Parliament 
as  a  baron  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  He  had  been  already  with  Wolsey  in  his 
embassy  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V.;  and  in  1532  he 
accompanied  the  King  to  France  —  having  previously, 
it  is  said,  had  the  custody  of  Queen  Catherine.  In 
1 533  he  was  made  a  Knight  of  the  Bath,  and  after¬ 
ward  Captain  of  the  Island  of  Jersey ;  which  office  he 
surrendered  in  1536.  His  poems,  which  were  for 
some  time  attributed  to  his  father,  are  chiefly  to  be 
found  in  the  Paradyse  of  Dainty  e  Devyces,  which  was 
reprinted  long  after  in  The  Bibliographer.  The  As¬ 
sault  of  Cupid,  and  the  Dyttie,  or  Sonnet  Made  by 
the  Lord  Vaux  in  Tyme  of  the  Noble  Queene  Marye, 
were  reprinted  by  Dr.  Percy  and  Mr.  Ellis.  Among 
the  best  known  of  his  pieces  are  The  Aged  Louer  Re- 
nounceth  Loue ;  No  Pleasure  Without  some  Paine; 
Of  the  Instabilitie  of  Youth;  Of  a  Contented  Minde; 
Of  B eying  Asked  the  Occasion  of  his  White  Heade. 

THE  TORPOR  OF  OLD  AGE. 

My  lusts  they  do  me  leave, 

My  fancies  all  be  fled, 

And  tract  of  time  begins  to  weave 
Gray  hairs  upon  my  head. 


THOMAS  VAUX 


112 


My  muse  doth  not  delight 
Me  as  she  did  before; 

My  hand  and  pen  are  not  in  plight 
As  they  have  been  of  yore. 

For  reason  me  denies 

This  youthly,  idle  rhyme ; 

And  day  by  day  to  me  she  cries, 

Leave  of  these  toys  in  time. 

The  wrinkles  in  my  brow, 

The  furrows  in  my  face, 

Say  limping  age  will  lodge  him  now 
Where  youth  must  give  him  place. 

Thus  must  I  youth  give  up, 

Whose  badge  I  long  did  wear; 

To  them  I  yield  the  wanton  cup 
That  better  may  it  bear. 

—  From  the  Aged  Louer  Renounceth  Loue. 

OF  A  CONTENTED  MINDE. 

When  all  is  done  and  said, 

In  th’  end  thus  shall  you  find, 

He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss, 

That  hath  a  quiet  mind; 

And  clear  from  worldly  cares, 

To  deem  can  be  content, 

The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 
On  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  fickle  fortune’s  power, 

And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 
Is  casual  every  hour; 

And  death  in  time  doth  change 
It  to  a  clod  of  clay, 

Whereas  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 

Runs  never  to  decay. 


IVAN  VAZOFF 


113 


Companion  none  is  like 
Unto  the  mind  alone, 

For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech, 
Through  thinking,  few  or  none ; 

Fear  oft  restraineth  words, 

But  makes  not  thought  to  cease, 

And  he  speaks  best  that  hath  the  skill 
When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death, 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave. 

But  virtues  of  the  mind  unto 
The  heavens  with  us  we  have ; 

Wherefore  for  virtue’s  sake 
I  can  be  well  content, 

The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 
To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 

—  Taken  from  The  Paradyse  of  Dainty e  Devyces. 


^■g^AZOFF,  Ivan,  a  Bulgarian  novelist  and  poet; 
i K  born  at  Sopot,  Eastern  Roumelia,  in  August, 

lA&E  1850.  He  was  educated  first  at  the  school  of 
his  native  town ;  and  was  then  sent  by  his  father,  a  small 
trader,  to  Kalofer  and  to  Philippopolis.  From  1870  to 
1872  he  resided  in  Roumania ;  and  then  returned  to 
Sopot  and  entered  his  father’s  business.  But  in  1876, 
having  become  more  and  more  an  object  of  suspicion  to 
the  Turkish  authorities,  he  had  to  fly  for  his  life  north 
across  the  Balkan;  and  reaching  Bucharest  he  joined 
the  Bulgarian  Revolutionary  Committee.  The  three 
stormy  years  that  followed  saw  the  development  of  his 
genius  and  the  publication  of  three  famous  volumes  of 
patriotic  lyrical  poetry,  The  Banner  and  the  Guzla; 
The  Sorrozvs  of  Bulgaria ,  and  The  Deliverance.  He 
Vol.  XXIII.— 8 


IVAN  VAZOFF 


114 

returned  in  1878  to  find  Sopot  destroyed;  and  he  then 
accepted  a  judicial  appointment  from  the  Russians. 
In  the  following  year  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
permanent  committee  of  the  provincial  assembly  of 
Eastern  Roumelia ;  and  having  settled  at  Philippopolis, 
the  new  capital,  he  there  published  his  earliest  prose 
works,  Not  Long  Ago;  Mitrofan ;  Hadji  and  The  Out¬ 
cast.  He  also  issued  here  his  comedy  entitled  Mik- 
halaki  and  two  new  collections  of  poetry :  Fields  and 
Woods ;  and  Italy ,  the  latter  published  in  1884,  after  he 
had  been  traveling  in  that  country.  During  the  war 
of  1885  he  visited  the  battle-fields  and  published  his 
Slivnitza;  and  in  1886  he  left  for  Russia  and  settled  in 
Odessa.  Here  he  wrote  his  masterpiece,  Pod  Igoto 
(Under  the  Yoke)  which  first  appeared  in  serial  form 
in  Sbornik,  a  review  published  by  the  Bulgarian  Min¬ 
ister  of  Public  Instruction.  In  1889  he  returned  and 
settled  in  Sofia.  In  1892  he  published  The  Great 
Desert  of  Rilo  and  In  the  Heart  of  the  Rhodope ,  and 
undertook  the  editorial  management  of  the  monthly 
periodical,  Dennitsa — the  Morning  Star. 

THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  MILL. 

Suddenly  a  storm  of  bullets  burst  upon  the  mill.  As 
the  volley  grew  louder,  the  Turks  approached  still  nearer. 
From  the  continued  silence,  they  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  concealed  rebel  was  unarmed.  Bullets  rained 
upon  the  walls. 

The  Turks  were  now  quite  close.  The  time  was  at 
hand.  Ognianoff  stood  upright  at  a  window,  the  doctor 
in  the  doorway. 

They  looked  at  each  other;  then  each  discharged  his 
revolver  into  the  surging  mass  of  the  enemy.  The  un¬ 
expected  rejoinder  brought  three  Turks  to  the  ground, 
and  revealed  the  force  of  the  mill.  The  Turks  saw  that 
there  was  more  than  one  rebel  there.  This  confused 


IVAN  VAZOFF 


ii5 

them,  but  only  for  a  moment.  The  victors  of  Klassoura 
rushed  with  a  shout  at  the  building.  Some  aimed  from 
the  banks  at  the  openings  in  the  walls,  so  as  to  prevent 
the  defenders  from  appearing  there  and  firing  at  the 
attacking  party.  The  struggle  could  not  last. 

“  We’re  done  for,  Doctor,”  said  Ognianoff ;  “  farewell 
for  ever,  my  brother  !  ” 

“  Farewell,  brother  !  ” 

“  But  neither  of  us,  Doctor,  must  fall  into  their  hands 
alive.” 

“No,  neither  of  us.  I’ve  four  cartridges  left;  and  I’m 
keeping  one  for  myself.” 

“  I’m  keeping  two,  Doctor,”  and  Ognianoff  involun¬ 
tarily  turned  toward  Rada.  She  lay  there  still,  but  her 
face  had  become  deathlike  in  its  pallor;  from  her  left 
breast  a  thin  stream  of  blood  was  quietly  trickling  down 
over  her  dress.  A  bullet  had  glanced  off  the  wall  and 
struck  her;  and  she  had  passed  from  unconsciousness 
into  eternal  slumber. 

Then  Ognianoff  left  his  post’  and  drew  near  to  her; 
he  knelt  down,  took  her  cold  hands  in  his,  and  imprinted 
one  long  kiss  on  her  icy  lips ;  he  kissed  her  forehead, 
her  wondrous,  loving  eyes,  her  hair,  and  her  wound 
where  the  blood  was  flowing.  If  he  uttered  any  sound, 
murmured  a  last  farewell  in  that  last  kiss,  whispered 
a  “  Good-by,  till  we  meet  again,  Rada,”  it  could  not  be 
heard  in  the  roar  of  the  guns  outside  and  the  pattering 
of  the  bullets  within.  He  wrapped  her  in  his  cloak. 
When  he  arose,  tears  were  flowing  down  his  cheeks. 

A  whole  ocean  of  sorrow  was  in  those  tears. 

Perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  — there  was  mingled  also  a 
warm  feeling  of  gratitude  to  Providence ! 

During  this  last  mute  farewell,  which  lasted  only  half 
a  minute,  Sokoloff  was  facing  alone  the  hundred  assail¬ 
ants.  Suddenly  he  turned  round  and  saw  Rada.  Then 
his  hair  stood  on  end,  his  eyes  flashed  like  a  tiger’s,  and, 
heedless  of  the  danger,  he  drew  himself  up  at  full  length 
in  the  door-way,  as  though  mocking  at  the  bullets,  and 
cried,  in  the  purest  Turkish: 

“  You  cursed  dogs !  you  shall  pay  dearly  for  every  drop 


n6 


VEDAS 


of  Bulgarian  blood !  ”  and  he  discharged  his  revolver 
into  the  thick  of  the  crowd. 

With  redoubled  frenzy  the  horde  now  rushed  at  the 
impregnable  fortress  —  for  such  the  ruined  mill  seemed 
to  have  become.  A  wild  shout  followed  by  a  fresh 
volley,  cleft  the  air. 

“  Ah !  ”  groaned  the  doctor,  flinging  away  his  revolver. 
A  bullet  had  pierced  his  right  hand.  Inexpressible  hor¬ 
ror  and  despair  were  depicted  on  his  face.  Ognianoff, 
still  firing  at  the  crowd,  and  also  covered  with  blood, 
asked : 

“Are  you  in  pain,  brother  ?” 

"  No,  but  I’ve  fired  off  my  last  cartridge  —  I  forgot.” 

“  Here ;  there  are  two  left  in  my  revolver ;  take  it,” 
said  Ognianoff,  handing  the  weapon  to  Sokoloff.  “  Now 
they  shall  see  how  a  Bulgarian  apostle  dies !  ”  And 
drawing  the  long  yataghan  from  the  doctor’s  belt,  he 
rushed  from  the  door  into  the  crowd,  dealing  frightful 
blows  left  and  right. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  whole  horde,  triumphant  and 
ferocious,  was  marching  with  demoniacal  glee  from  the 
valley  with  Ognianoff’s  head  on  a  pole.  The  doctor’s 
head,  slashed  to  pieces  by  their  knives  —  it  had  first  been 
shattered  by  the  doctor  himself  with  a  bullet  —  could  not 
serve  as  a  trophy.  So  also  Rada’s  head  was  left  behind 
for  reasons  of  policy. 

A  cart  behind  conveyed  the  killed  and  wounded. 

With  savage  shouts  of  triumph  the  band  reached  the 
town.  It  was  more  silent  and  deserted  than  a  grave¬ 
yard.  They  set  up  the  trophy  in  the  market-place. —  From 
Pod  Ig 


^H^EDAS,  the  sacred  books  of  Brahminism,  of  the 
earliest  or  Vedic  period,  supposed  to  have  ex¬ 
tended  from  1200  to  200  b.c.  Excluding  the 
Bramanas  and  Sutras,  which  are  of  the  nature  of  com¬ 
mentaries,  and  are  referred  to  1000  to  200  b.c.,  the 


VEDAS 


▼  T  ** 
x  l 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9/ 

Vedas,  or  sacred  hymns,  assumed  to  date  12000  to 
1000  b.c.,  exist  in  four  collections :  the  Rig-Veda, 
Sama-Veda,  Yajur-Veda,  and  Atharva-Veda  —  the 
first,  which  is  the  most  prized,  containing  1,028  hymns 
and  10,580  verses.  Many  translations  of  portions  of 
these  have  been  made  in  German  and  English,  e.  g., 
accompanying  Muir’s  Original  Sanskrit  Texts  (5  vols., 
1863-70).  Max  Muller  has  published  6  volumes  of 
text  and  translation  of  Rig-Veda-Sanhita ,  beginning 
1869 — Sanhita  meaning  text;  and  gives  an  account 
of  the  sacred  writings  in  his  History  of  Ancient 
Sanskrit  Literature  (1859).  The  word  Veda  means 
“  knowledge.”  Muller  speaks  of  the  Vedas  as  the  old¬ 
est  of  human  writings. 

HYMN  TO  AGNI  (THE  GOD  OF  FIRE)  AND  THE  MARUTS  (THE 

storm-gods). 

1.  Thou  art  called  forth  to  this  fair  sacrifice  for  a 
draught  of  milk;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni ! 

2.  No  god  indeed,  no  mortal,  is  beyond  the  might  of 
thee,  the  mighty  one;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O 
Agni ! 

3.  They  who  know  the  great  sky,  the  Visve  Devas 
without  guile;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni! 

4.  The  wild  ones  who  sing  their  song,  unconquerable 
by  force ;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni  ! 

5.  They  who  are  brilliant,  of  awful  shape,  powerful, 
and  devourers  of  foes ;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O 
Agni ! 

6.  They  who  in  Heaven  are  enthroned  as  gods,  in  the 
light  of  the  firmament ;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O 
Agni ! 

7.  They  who  toss  the  clouds  across  the  surging  sea ; 
with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni ! 

8.  They  who  shoot  with  their  darts  across  the  sea  with 
might;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni  ! 

9.  I  pour  out  to  thee  for  the  early  draught  the  sweet 
(juice)  of  Soma;  with  the  Maruts  come  hither,  O  Agni! 


n8 


VEDAS 


HYMN  TO  THE  MARUTS  (THE  STORM-GODS). 

1.  Sing  forth,  O  Kanvas,  to  the  sportive  host  of  your 
Maruts,  brilliant  on  their  chariots,  and  unscathed  — 

2.  They  who  were  born  together,  self-luminous,  with 
the  spotted  deer  (the  clouds),  the  spears,  the  daggers, 
the  glittering  ornaments. 

3.  I  hear  their  whips,  almost  close  by,  as  they  crack 
them  in  their  hands;  they  gain  splendor  on  their  way. 

4.  Sing  forth  your  god-given  prayer  to  the  exultant 
host  of  your  Maruts,  the  furiously  vigorous,  the  powerful. 

5.  Celebrate  the  bull  among  the  cows  (the  storm  among 
the  clouds),  for  it  is  the  sportive  host  of  the  Maruts; 
he  grew  as  he  tasted  the  rain. 

6.  Who,  O  ye  men,  is  the  oldest  among  you  here,  ye 
shakers  of  heaven  and  earth,  when  you  shake  them  like 
the  hem  of  a  garment? 

7.  At  your  approach  the  son  of  man  holds  himself 
down ;  the  gnarled  cloud  fled  at  your  fierce  anger. 

8.  They  at  whose  racings  the  earth,  like  a  hoary  king, 
trembles  for  fear  on  their  ways. 

9.  Their  birth  is  strong  indeed ;  there  is  strength  to 
come  forth  from  their  mother,  nay,  there  is  vigor  twice 
enough  for  it. 

10.  And  these  sons,  the  singers,  enlarged  the  fences 
in  their  coursings ;  the  cows  had  to  walk  knee-deep. 

11.  They  cause  this  long  and  broad  unceasing  rain  to 
fall  on  their  ways. 

12.  O  Maruts,  with  such  strength  as  yours,  you  have 
caused  men  to  fall,  you  have  caused  the  mountains  to 
fall. 

13.  As  the  Maruts  pass  along,  they  talk  together  on 
the  way;  does  anyone  hear  them? 

14.  Come  fast  on  your  quick  steeds !  there  are  wor¬ 
shippers  for  you  among  the  canvas;  may  you  well  re¬ 
joice  among  them. 


VEDAS 


119 


HYMN  TO  THE  MARUTS  AND  INDRA. 

The  Prologue. 

The  sacrificer  speaks: 

1.  With  what  splendor  are  the  Maruts  all  equally  en¬ 
dowed,  they  who  are  of  the  same  age,  and  dwell  in  the 
same  house?  With  what  thoughts?  From  whence  are 
they  come?  Do  these  heroes  sing  forth  their  (own) 
strength  because  they  wish  for  wealth  ? 

2.  Whose  prayers  have  the  youths  accepted?  Who 
has  turned  the  Maruts  to  his  own  sacrifice  ?  By  what 
strong  devotion  may  we  delight'  them,  they  who  float 
through  the  air  like  hawks? 

The  Dialogue. 

The  Maruts  speak: 

3.  From  whence,  O  Indra,  dost  thou  come  alone,  thou 
who  art  mighty?  O  Lord  of  men,  what  has  thus  hap¬ 
pened  to  thee?  Thou  greetest  (us),  when  thou  comest 
together  with  (us)  the  bright  (Maruts).  Tell  us,  then, 
thou  with  thy  bay  horses,  what  thou  hast  against  us ! 

Indra  speaks : 

4.  The  sacred  songs  are  mine  (mine  are),  the  prayers; 
sweet  are  the  libations !  My  strength  rises,  my  thun¬ 
derbolt  is  hurled  forth.  They  call  for  me,  the  prayers 
yearn  for  me.  Here  are  my  horses,  they  carry  me  toward 
them. 

The  Maruts  speak: 

5.  Therefore,  in  company  with  our  strong  friends,  hav¬ 
ing  adorned  our  bodies,  we  now  harness  our  fallow  deer 
with  all  our  might;  for,  Indra,  according  to  thy  custom, 
thou  hast  been  with  us. 

Indra  speaks : 

6.  Where,  O  Maruts,  was  that  custom  of  yours,  that 
you  should  join  me  who  am  alone  in  killing  Ahi  ?  I 
indeed  am  terrible,  strong,  powerful  —  I  escaped  from 
the  blows  of  every  enemy. 


120 


VEDAS 


The  Maruts  speak : 

7.  Thou  hast  achieved  much  with  us  as  companions. 
With  the  same  valor,  O  hero  !  let  us  achieve,  then,  many 
things,  O  thou  most  powerful,  O  Indra  !  whatever  we,  O 
Maruts,  wish  with  our  heart. 

Indra  speaks : 

8.  I  slew  Vritra,  O  Maruts,  with  might,  having  grown 
strong  through  my  own  vigor ;  I,  who  hold  the  thunder¬ 
bolt  in  my  arms,  I  have  made  these  all-brilliant  waters  to 
flow  freely  for  man. 

The  Maruts  speak : 

9.  Nothing,  O  powerful  lord,  is  strong  before  thee; 
no  one  is  known  among  the  gods  like  unto  thee.  No  one 
who  is  now  born  will  come  near,  no  one  who  has  been 
born.  Do  what  has  to  be  done,  thou  who  art  grown  so 
strong. 

Indra  speaks : 

10.  Almighty  power  be  mine  alone,  whatever  I  may 
do,  daring  in  my  heart ;  for  I  indeed,  O  Maruts,  am 
known  as  terrible  :  of  all  that  I  threw  down,  I,  Indra,  am 
the  lord. 

Indra  speaks : 

11.  O  Maruts,  now  your  praise  has  pleased  me,  the 
glorious  hymn  which  you  have  made  for  me,  ye  men  !  — * 
for  me,  for  Indra,  for  the  powerful  hero,  as  friends,  for 
your  own  sake  and  by  your  own  efforts. 

Indra  speaks : 

12.  Truly,  there  they  are,  shining  toward  me,  assum¬ 
ing  blameless  glory,  assuming  vigor.  O  Maruts,  wher¬ 
ever  I  have  looked  for  you,  you  have  appeared  to  me  in 
bright  splendor ;  appear  to  me  also  now  ! 

The  Epilogue. 

The  sacrificer  speaks: 

13.  Who  has  magnified  you  here,  O  Maruts?  Come 
hither,  O  friends,  toward  your  friends.  Ye  brilliant 
Maruts,  cherish  these  prayers,  and  be  mindful  of  these 
rites. 

14.  The  wisdom  of  Manya  has  brought  us  to  this,  that 
he  should  help  as  the  poet  helps  the  performer  of  a 


DAVID  VEDDER 


121 


sacrifice:  bring  (them)  hither  quickly!  Maruts,  on  to 
the  sage !  these  prayers  the  singer  has  recited  for  you. 

15.  This  your  praise,  O  Maruts,  this  your  song  conies 
from  Mandarya,  the  son  of  Mana,  the  poet.  Come  hither 
with  rain  !  May  we  find  ourselves,  offspring,  food,  and 
a  camp  with  running  water. —  Muller’s  Rig-Vedci-San- 
hita,  Book  I.,  Hymns  to  the  Maruts. 


PRAYER  FROM  THE  KIG-VEDA. 


This  new  and  excellent  praise  of  thee,  O  splendid, 
playful  sun,  is  offered  by  us  to  thee.  Be  gratified  by 
this  my  speech.  Approach  this  craving  mind  as  a  fond 
man  seeks  a  woman.  May  that  sun  who  contemplates 
and  looks  into  all  worlds  be  our  protection.  Let  us  med¬ 
itate  on  the  adorable  light  of  the  divine  ruler;  may  it 
guide  our  intellects.  Desirous  of  food,  we  solicit  the 
gift  of  the  splendid  sun,  who  should  be  studiously  wor¬ 
shipped.-  Venerable  men,  guided  by  understanding,  sa¬ 
lute  the  divine  sun  with  oblations  and  praise. —  Hand¬ 
book  of  Sanskrit  Literature. 


EDDER,  David,  a  Scottish  lyric  poet ;  born  at 


Burness,  Orkney,  in  1790;  died  at  Newington, 


EAL-  near  Edinburgh,  February  11,  1854.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  small  proprietor  near  Kirkwall.  De¬ 
prived  of  his  parents  early  in  life,  he  entered  the 
merchant  marine,  and  afterward  the  customs  service. 
In  1852  he  was  placed  on  the  retired  list;  when  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  Edinburgh,  near  which  town 
he  died.  Vedder  began  to  rhyme  very  early  in  life, 
but  he  did  not  venture  on  publishing  till  1826,  when 
The  Covenanter’s  Communion  and  Other  Poems  ap¬ 
peared.  Then  followed  Arcadian  Sketches;  Leg¬ 
endary  and  Lyrical  Pieces  in  1832,  and  in  the  same 


122 


DAVID  VEDDER 


year  a  Memoir  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  Critical 
Notices  of  His  Writings.  Ten  years  later  he  reap¬ 
peared  as  the  author  of  a  volume  of  Poems ,  Leg¬ 
endary,  Lyrical,  and  Descriptive.  In  1848  Vedder  and 
his  son-in-law,  Frederick  Schenck,  a  lithographer,  is¬ 
sued  jointly  an  illustrated  book  entitled  The  Pictorial 
Gift-Book  of  Lays  and  Lithography.  His  last  work 
was  a  new  English  version  of  the  German  story  of 
Reynard  the  Fox,  published  in  1852. 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  NATURE. 

Talk  not  of  temples  —  there  is  one 

Built  without  hands,  to  mankind  given ; 

Its  lamps  are  the  meridian  sun, 

And  all  the  stars  of  heaven ; 

Its  walls  are  the  cerulean  sky ; 

Its  floors  the  earth  so  green  and  fair; 

The  dome  is  vast  immensity  — 

All  Nature  worships  there ! 

The  Alps,  arrayed  in  stainless  snow, 

The  Andean  ranges  yet  untrod, 

At  sunrise  and  at  sunset  glow 
Like  altar-fires  to  God. 

A  thousand  fierce  volcanoes  blaze, 

As  if  with  hallowed  victims  rare ; 

And  thunder  lifts  its  voice  in  praise  — 

All  Nature  worships  there! 

The  Ocean  heaves  resistlessly, 

And  pours  its  glittering  treasures  forth; 

His  waves  —  the  priesthood  of  the  sea  — 

Kneel  on  the  shell-gemmed  earth, 

And  there  emit  a  hollow  sound, 

As  if  they  murmured  praise  and  prayer 

On  every  side  ’tis  holy  ground  — 

All  Nature  worships  there ! 


FELIX  LOPE  DE  VEGA  CARPIO 


123 


The  cedar  and  the  mountain  pine, 

The  willow  on  the  fountain  brim, 

The  tulip  and  the  eglantine, 

In  reverence  bend  to  Him ; 

The  song-birds  pour  their  sweetest  lays 
From  tower  and  tree  and  middle  air; 
The  rushing  river  murmurs  praise  — 
All  Nature  worships  there ! 


SEGA  CARPIO,  Felix  Lope  de,  a  Spanish  poet 
and  dramatist ;  born  at  Madrid,  November  25, 
1562;  died  there,  August  27,  1635.  The 
Bishop  of  Avila  was  interested  in  his  education ;  and, 
at  seventeen,  he  entered  the  University  of  Alcala  de 
Henares,  where  he  distinguished  himself.  After  many 
vicissitudes,  and  after  service  as  a  soldier  in  the 
Invincible  Armada,  he  became  a  Franciscan  priest. 
His  fame  was  so  unbounded  that  a  brilliant  diamond 
was  called  a  Lope  diamond ;  a  fine  day,  a  Lope  day,  etc. 
He  is  said  to  have  been  the  most  prolific  author  who 
ever  lived,  having  written  eighteen  hundred  dramas. 
Lord  Holland  gave  a  list  of  four  hundred  and  ninety- 
seven  still  extant.  Besides  these,  were  long  poems, 
Arcadia;  La  Hermosura  de  Angelica,  etc.  His  mis¬ 
cellaneous  writings  were  published  in  twenty-one  vol¬ 
umes  (Madrid,  1776). 

FROM  THE  “  ESTRELLA  DE  SEVILLA.” 

Sancho. —  I  kiss  thy  feet'. 

King. —  Rise,  Sancho,  rise  and  know 

I  wrong  thee  much  to  let  thee  stoop  so  low. 

Sancho. — My  liege,  confounded  with  thy  grace  I  stand ; 
Unskilled  in  speech,  no  words  can  I  command 


124 


FELIX  LOPE  DE  VEGA  CARPIO 


To  tell  the  thanks  I  feel. 

King. —  Why,  what  in  me 

To  daunt  thy  noble  spirit  canst  thou  see? 

Sancho. — Courage  and  majesty  that  strike  with  awe; 
My  sovereign  lord;  the  fountain  of  the  law; 

In  fine,  God’s  image,  which  I  come  to  obey, 

Never  so  honored  as  I  feel  to-day. 

King. — Much  I  applaud  thy  wisdom,  much  thy  zeal; 
And  now,  to  try  thy  courage,  will  reveal 
That  which  you  covet  so  to  learn  —  the  cause 
That  thus  my  soldier  to  the  presence  draws. 

Much  it  imports  the  safety  of  my  reign 
A  man  should  die  —  in  secret  should  be  slain ; 

This  must  some  friend  perform ;  search  Seville  through, 
None  can  I  find  so  fit  to  trust  as  you. 

Sancho. —  Guilty  he  needs  must  be. 

King. —  He  is. 

Sancho. —  Then  why. 

My  sovereign  liege,  in  secret  should  he  die? 

If  public  law  demands  the  culprit’s  head, 

In  public  let  the  culprit’s  blood  be  shed. 

Shall  Justice’s  sword,  which  strikes  in  face  of  day 
Stoop  to  dark  deeds  —  a  man  in  secret  slay? 

The  world  will  think  who  kills  by  means  unknown 
No  guilt  avenges,  but  implies  his  own. 

If  slight  his  fault,  I  dare  for  mercy  pray. 

King. —  Sancho,  attend ;  —  you  came  not  here  to-day 
An  advocate  to  plead  a  traitor’s  cause, 

But  to  perform  my  will,  to  execute  my  laws, 

To  slay  a  man;  and  why  the  culprit  bleed 
Matters  not  thee,  it  is  thy  monarch’s  deed; 

If  base,  thy  monarch  the  dishonor  bears. 

But  say  —  to  draw  against  my  life  who  dares, 

Deserves  he  death? 

Sancho. —  Oh,  yes  !  a  thousand  times. 

King. — Then  strike  without  remorse :  these  are  the 
wretch’s  crimes. 

Sancho. —  So  let  him  die;  for  sentence  Ortiz  pleads: 
Were  he  my  brother,  by  this  arm  he  bleeds. 

King. —  Give  me  thy  hand. 

Sancho. —  With  that  my  heart  I  pledge. 


FELIX  LOPE  DE  VEGA  CARPIO 


125 


King. —  So,  while  he  heeds  not,  shall  thy  rapier’s  edge 
Reach  his  proud  heart. 

Sancho. —  My  liege  !  my  sovereign  lord  ! 

Sancho’s  my  name,  I  wear  a  soldier’s  sword. 

Would  you  with  treacherous  acts  and  deeds  of  shame 
Taint  such  a  calling,  tarnish  such  a  name? 

Shall  I  —  shall  I  to  sink  from  open  strife, 

Like  some  base  coward,  point  the  assassin’s  knife? 

No  !  face  to  face  his  foe  must  Ortiz  meet, 

Or  in  the  crowded  mart,  or  public  street, 

Defy  and  combat  him  in  open  light. 

Curse  the  mean  wretch  who  slays,  but  dares  not  fight 
Naught  can  excuse  the  vile  assassin’s  blow; 

Happy,  compared  with  him,  his  murdered  foe  — 

With  him  who,  living,  lives  but  to  proclaim, 

To  all  he  meets,  his  cowardice  and  shame. 

King. —  E’en  as  thou  wilt ;  but  in  this  paper  read, 

Signed  by  the  king,  the  warrant  of  the  deed. 

Act  as  you  may,  my  name  shall  set  you  free. 

Sancho. —  Does,  then,  my  liege,  so  meanly  deem  of  me? 
I  know  his  power,  which  can  the  earth  control, 

Know  his  unshaken  faith  and  steadfast  soul. 

Shall  seals,  shall  parchments,  then,  to  me  afford 
A  surer  warrant  than  my  sovereign’s  word? 

To  guard  my  actions,  as  to  guide  my  hand, 

I  ask  no  surety  but  my  king’s  command. 

Perish  such  deeds!  [Tears  the  paper.']  they  serve  but 
to  record 

Some  doubt,  some  question  of  a  monarch’s  word. 

What  need  of  bonds  ?  By  honor  bound  are  we  — 

I  to  avenge  thy  wrongs,  and  thou  to  rescue  me. 

One  price  I  ask  —  the  maid  I  name  for  bride. 

King. —  Were  she  the  richest  and  best  allied 
In  Spain,  I  grant  her. 

Sancho. —  So  throughout  the  world, 

May  oceans  view  thy  conquering  flag  unfurled ! 

King. —  Nor  shall  thy  actions  pass  without  a  meed. 
This  note  informs  thee,  Ortiz,  who  must  bleed, 

But,  reading,  be  not  startled  at  a  name; 

Great  is  his  prowess ;  Seville  speaks  his  fame. 

Sancho. — I’ll  put  that  prowess  to  the  proof  ere  long. 


126 


FELIX  LOPE  DE  VEGA  CARPIO 


to-morrow. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me  —  that  Thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there? 

Oh,  strange  delusion,  that  I  did  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach  !  and,  oh,  to  heaven  how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude’s  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  Thy  feet ! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

“  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 
How  He  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !  ” 

And,  O,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

“  To-morrow,  we  will  open,”  I  replied ! 

And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still,  “To 
morrow.” 

—  Translation  of  Longfellow. 

COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Let  the  vain  courtier  waste  his  days, 

Lured  by  the  charm  that  wealth  displays, 

The  couch  of  dawn,  the  board  of  costly  fare; 

Be  his  to  kiss  the  ungrateful  hand 
That  waves  the  sceptre  of  command, 

And  rear  full  many  a  palace  in  the  air : 

Whilst  I  enjoy,  all  unconfined, 

The  glowing  sun,  the  genial  wind, 

And  tranquil  hours,  to  rustic  toil  assigned ; 

And  prize  far  more,  in  peace  and  health, 

Contented  indigence  than  joyless  wealth. 

Not  mine  in  fortune’s  face  to  bend, 

At  Grandeur’s  altar  to  attend, 

Reflect  his  smile,  and  tremble  at  his  frown ; 

Not  mine  a  fond,  aspiring  thought, 

A  wish,  a  sigh,  a  vision,  fraught 
With  Fame’s  bright  phantom,  Glory’s  deathless  crown 
Nectareous  draughts  and  viands  pure 
Luxuriant  nature  will  insure; 


EMILE  VERHAEREN 


127 


These  the  clear  fount  and  fertile  field 
Still  to  the  wearied  shepherd  yield ; 

And  when  repose  and  visions  reign, 

Then  we  are  equals  all,  the  monarch  and  the  swain. 


8ERHAEREN,  Emile,  a  Belgian  poet  and  critic ; 
born  at  St.  Amand,  near  Antwerp,  in  1855. 
After  some  time  spent  at  a  college  in  Ghent, 
he  became  a  student  at  the  university  of  Louvain, 
where  he  founded  and  edited  a  journal,  in  which  work 
he  was  assisted  by  Van  Dyck,  the  singer.  He  also 
formed,  about  this  time,  a  close  friendship  with 
Maeterlinck.  In  1881  he  was  called  to  the  bar  at 
Brussels,  but  soon  gave  up  his  legal  career  to  devote 
himself  entirely  to  literature.  In  1883  he  published 
Les  Flamndes,  his  first  volume  of  poems,  and  shortly 
afterward  became  one  of  the  editors  of  L’ Art  Moderne, 
to  which  review  he  was  for  ten  years  a  constant  con¬ 
tributor.  In  1892  he  founded,  with  the  help  of  two 
friends,  the  section  of  art  in  the  “  House  of  the  Peo¬ 
ple  ”  at  Brussels.  Here  the  best  music  is  performed, 
and  lectures  are  given  upon  literary  and  artistic  sub¬ 
jects.  Between  1886  and  1896  he  brought  out  suc¬ 
cessively  eight  small  volumes  of  poems :  Les  Moines ; 
Les  Soirs;  Les  Debacles ;  Les  Flambeaux  Noirs ;  Ap- 
parus  dans  mes  Chemins;  Les  Campagnes  Hallucinees ; 
Les  Villages  Illusoires;  and  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires 
Verhaeren’s  Les  Campagnes  Hallucinees ;  Les  Villes 
Tentaculaires ,  and  a  later  work  entitled  Les  Aubes 
constitute  what  is  known  as  his  “  Trilogy,”  his  longest 
and  most  ambitious  effort,  written  throughout  in  a 
tragic  and  prophetic  spirit.  Verhaeren’s  diligence  as 


128 


EMILE  VERHAEREN 


a  critic,  and  the  sanity  and  generosity  of  his  literary 
appreciations,  are  witnessed  by  his  writings  in  the 
pages  of  L’Art  Moderne;  La  Jeune  Belgique;  La 
Wallonie;  La  Revue  Independante ;  Les  Ecrits  pour 
V Art;  Magazine  of  Art ,  and  many  other  periodicals. 

LE  SILENCE. 

Ever  since  ending  of  the  summer  weather, 

When  last  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  broke, 

Shatt’ring  themselves  upon  it  at  one  stroke, 

The  Silence  has  not  stirred  there  in  the  heather. 

All  round  about  stand  steeples  straight  as  stakes, 

And  each  its  bell  between  its  fingers  shakes ; 

And  round  about,  with  their  three-storied  loads, 

The  teams  prowl  down  the  roads ; 

All  round  about  where’er  the  pine-woods  end, 

The  wheel  creaks  on  along  its  rutty  bed, 

But  not  a  sound  is  strong  enough  to  rend 
That  space  intense  and  dead. 

Since  summer,  thunder-laden,  last  was  heard, 

The  Silence  has  not  stirred; 

And  the  broad  heath-land,  where  the  nights  sink  down 
Beyond  the  sand-hills  brown, 

Beyond  the  endless  thickets  closely  set, 

To  the  far  borders  of  the  far-away, 

Prolongs  It  yet. 

Even  the  winds  disturb  not  as  they  go 
The  boughs  of  those  long  larches,  bending  low 
Where  the  marsh-water  lies, 

In  which  Its  vacant  eyes 

Gaze  at  themselves  unceasing,  stubbornly, 

Only,  sometimes,  as  on  their  way  they  move, 

The  noiseless  shadows  of  the  clouds  above, 

Or  of  some  great  bird’s  hov’ring  flight  on  high. 

Brush  It  in  passing  by. 


EMILE  VERHAEREN 


129 


Since  the  last  bolt  that  scored  the  earth  aslant, 

Nothing  has  pierced  the  Silence  dominant. 

Of  those  who  cross  Its  vast  immensity. 

Whether  at  twilight  or  at  dawn  it  be, 

There  is  not  one  but  feels 

The  dread  of  the  Unknown  that  It  instils ; 

An  ample  force  supreme,  It  holds  Its  sway, 
Uninterruptedly  the  same  for  aye. 

Dark  walls  of  blackest  fir-trees  bar  from  sight 
The  outlook  toward  the  paths  of  hope  and  light; 

Great,  pensive  junipers 
Affright  from  far  the  passing  travelers; 

Long,  narrow  paths  stretch  their  straight  lines  unbent, 
Till  they  fork  off  in  curves  malevolent; 

And  the  sun,  ever  shifting,  ceaseless  lends 
Fresh  aspects  to  the  mirage  whither  tends 
Bewilderment. 

Since  the  last  bolt  was  forged  amid  the  storm, 

The  polar  Silence  at  the  corners  four 

Of  the  wide  heather-land  has  stirred  no  more. 

Old  shepherds,  whom  their  hundred  years  have  worn 
To  things  all  dislocate  and  out  of  gear, 

And  their  old  dogs,  ragged,  tired-out,  and  torn, 

Oft  watch  It  on  the  soundless  lowlands  near, 

Or  downs  of  gold  bedecked  with  shadows’  flight, 

Sit  down  immensely  there  beside  the  night'. 

Then,  at  the  curves  and  corners  of  the  mere, 

The  waters  creep  with  fear; 

The  heather  veils  itself,  grows  wan  and  white ; 

All  the  leaves  listen  upon  all  the  bushes, 

And  the  incendiary  sunset  hushes 

Before  Its  face  his  cries  of  brandished  light. 

And  in  the  hamlets  that  about  It  lie, 

Beneath  the  thatches  of  their  hovels  small, 

The  terror  dwells  of  feeling  It  is  nigh, 

And  though  It  stirs  not,  dominating  all. 

Broken  with  dull  despair  and  helplessness, 

Beneath  Its  presence  they  crouch  motionless, 

Vol.  XXIII.— 9 


130 


PAUL  VERLAINE 


As  though  upon  the  watch  —  and  dread  to  see. 

Through  rifts  of  vapor,  open  suddenly 
At  evening,  in  the  noon,  the  argent  eyes 
Of  Its  mute  mysteries. 

—  From  Les  Villages  Illnsoires;  translation  of 
Miss  Alma  Strettel. 


^g^ERLAINE,  Paul,  a  French  poet;  born  at  Metz, 
mP//i  March  30,  1844;  died  at  Paris,  January  8, 
eMa  1896.  His  father,  a  captain  in  the  engineers, 
removed  with  his  family  to  Paris  in  1851 ;  and  it 
was  there  that  Paul  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life, 
varied  by  visits  to  England,  Belgium,  Holland  and 
Germany.  His  first  volume  of  poems,  Poemes  Satur- 
niens,  was  published  at  the  age  of  twenty-three ;  and 
was  followed  by  Fetes  Galantes  (1869);  La  Bonne 
Chanson  (1870);  Romances  sans  Paroles  (1874), 
Sagesse  (1881)  ;  Jodis  et  Naguere  (1884)  ;  Amour 
(1888);  Parallelement  (1889);  Dedicaces  (1890); 
Bonheur  (1891)  ;  Chansons  pour  File  (1891)  ;  Litur¬ 
gies  Intimes  (1892);  Elegies  (1893);  Odes  en  son 
Honneur  (1893);  Dans  les  Limbes  (1894);  Epi- 
grammes  (1894);  and  the  following  works  in  prose: 
Les  Poetes  Maudits  (1884)  ;  Louise  Leclercq  (1885)  ; 
Memoir es  d’un  V euf  (1886)  ;  Mes  Hdpitaux  (1891)  ; 
Mes  Prisons  (1893)  1  Quinze  Jours  en  Hollande 
1893),  and  Confessions  (1895). 

More  than  any  other  man  of  letters  of  his  time, 
Verlaine  was  a  sort  of  public  figure,  typifying,  for 
all  the  world,  the  traditional  vagabond  character  of 
the  poet.  As  the  whole  of  his  work  was  personal, 
one  long  confession  of  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the 


PAUL  VERLAINE 


I3i 

sins  and  repentances,  of  his  strange,  troubled,  intensely 
living  life,  it  is  perhaps  natural  that  an  undue  atten¬ 
tion  should  have  been  given,  not  always  quite  sym¬ 
pathetically,  to  these  private  accidents  of  existence, 
about  which  he  has  himself  said  all  that  need  be  said. 

THE  BLUE  SKY  IS  SMILING. 

The  blue  sky  is  smiling  afar  o’er  the  roof, 

Smiling  its  tend’rest  and  best; 

A  green  tree  is  rearing  above  the  same  roof 
Its  swaying  crest. 

The  belfry-bells  up  in  the  motionless  sky 
Softly  and  peacefully  ring; 

The  birds  that  go  sailing  athwart  the  same  sky 
Unceasing  sing. 

The  murmur  of  bees  everywhere  fills  the  air  — 
Honey-bees  up  from  the  street ; 

My  God  !  there  is  life  everywhere  in  the  air, 

Calm  life  and  sweet. 

Then  what  have  you  done,  guilty  man,  that  you  weep? 
What  guilty  thing  have  you  done, 

That  under  the  life-giving  sun  you  can  weep  — 

The  smiling  sun? 

— From  Sagesse;  translation  of  J.  W.  Banta. 

THE  LOVE  OF  CHRIST. 

And  thou  must  love  Me,  child,  the  Saviour  said :  — 

Behold  My  bleeding  heart;  My  riven  side; 

My  wounded  feet,  that  Mary  knelt,  dim-eyed, 

To  clasp;  Mine  arms  to  thee  outspread. 

Thy  sins  I’ve  borne:  My  cross  with  blood  is  red; 

Sponge,  nails,  all,  all,  thy  wand’ring  heart  shall  guide 

To  love  where  nought  was  known  but  selfish  pride; 

My  blood  shall  be  thy  wine,  My  flesh  thy  bread. 


132 


PAUL  VERLAINE 


I’ve  loved  thee,  brother  mine,  e’en  down  to  death ; 

My  Father’s  child  in  spirit  and  in  faith, 

For  thee  Fve  suffered,  as  the  Scripture  saith, 

Thine  agony  went  out  with  my  last  breath ; 

Thy  tears  hung  cold  upon  My  clammy  brow ; 

O  tearful,  trembling  friend,  rest  with  Me  now. 

—  From  Sagesse;  translation  of  J.  W.  Banta. 

A  TALK  SENTIMENTAL. 

In  the  deserted  park,  silent  and  vast, 

Erewhile  twO'  shadowy,  glimmering  figures  passed. 
Their  lips  were  colorless,  and  dead  their  eyes; 

Their  words  were  scarce  more  audible  than  sighs. 
In  the  deserted  park,  silent  and  vast, 

Two  spectres  conjured  up  the  buried  past. 

“  Our  ancient  ecstasy,  do  you  recall  ?  ” 

“  Why,  pray,  should  I  remember  it  at  all  ?  ” 

“  Does  still  your  heart  at  mention  of  me  glow  ? 

Do  still  you  see  my  soul  in  slumber?”  “No!” 

“  Ah,  blessed,  blissful  days  when  our  lips  met ! 

You  loved  me  so!”  “Quite  likely  —  I  forget.” 

—  Translation  of  Gertrude  Hall. 

IN  A  MINOR  KEY. 

Tranquil  in  the  twilight  dense 
By  the  speaking  branches  made. 

Let  us  breathe  the  influence 
Of  the  silence  and  the  shade. 

Let  your  heart  melt  into  mine, 

And  your  soul  reach  out  to  me, 

’Mid  the  languors  of  the  pine 
And  the  sighing  of  the  arbute  tree. 

Close  your  eyes,  your  hand  let  be 
Folded  on  your  slumbering  heart, 

From  whose  hold  all  treachery 
Drive  forever,  and  all  art. 


JULES  VERNE, 


JULES  VERNE 


133 


Let  us  with  the  hour  accord ! 

Let  us  let  the  gentle  wind, 

Rippling  in  the  sunburnt  sward, 

Bring  us  to  a  patient  mind ! 

And  when  Night  across  the  air 
Shall  her  solemn  shadow  fling, 

Touching  voice  of  our  despair, 

Long  the  nightingale  shall  sing. 

—  Translation  of  Gertrude  Hall. 


ERNE,  Jules,  a  French  novelist;  born  at  Nan¬ 
tes,  February  8,  1828;  died  at  Amiens,  March 
24,  1905.  He  was  educated  in  his  native 
town,  studied  law  in  Paris,  where  he  devoted  much 
attention  to  dramatic  literature.  His  comedy  Les 
Pailles  Rompues  was  performed  at  the  Gymnase  in 
1850,  and  Onze  Tours  de  Liege  followed.  His  fame 
rests  upon  his  scientific  romances,  which  have  a  touch 
of  extravagance  in  their  treatment.  His  works,  which 
are  widely  read,  have  been  translated  into  English. 
Among  them  are  Five  Weeks  in  a  Balloon  (1870)  ; 
A  Journey  to  the  Centre  of  the  Earth  (1872)  ;  Twenty 
Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea  (1873)  ;  Meridiana: 
the  Adventures  of  Three  Englishmen  and  Three  Rus¬ 
sians  in  South  Africa  (1873)  ;  From  the  Earth  to  the 
Moon  Direct  in  Ninety-seven  Hours  Twenty  Minutes, 
and  a  Trip  Round  It  (1873);  The  Fur  Country,  or 
Seventy  Degrees  North  Latitude  (1874)  ;  Around  the 
World  in  Eighty  Days  (1874)  ;  A  Floating  City,  and 
The  Blockade  Runners  (1874)  ;  The  English  at  the 
North  Pole  (1874);  Dr.  Ox's  Experiment  (1874); 
A  Winter  Amid  the  Ice  (1875)  ;  The  Mysterious  Island 


C34 


JULES  VERNE 


(1875)  ;  The  Survivors  of  the  “Chancellor”  (1875)  > 
Michael  Strogoff,  the  Courier  of  the  Czar  (1876); 
The  Child  of  the  Cavern  (1877)  5  Hector  Servadac,  or 
the  Career  of  a  Comet  (1877)  >  Dick  Sands,  the  Boy 
Captain  (1878)  ;  Le  Rayon  Vert  (1882)  ;  Keraban-le- 
teta  (1883);  L'Etoile  du  Sud  (1884);  Le  Pays  de 
Diamants  (1884);  Le  Chcmin  de  prance  (1887); 
Deux  Ans  de  Vacances  (1888);  Famille  Sans  Nom 
(1889);  Ccesar  Cascabel  (1890);  Mathias  Sautlorf 
(1890)  ;  Nord  contra  Sud  (1890)  ;  The  Purchase  of 
the  North  Pole  (1890)  ;  Claudius  Bomhamac  (1892)  ; 
Chateau  des  Carpathes  (1892)  ;  Le  Sphinx  des  Glaces 
(1897);  and  Le  Village  Aerien  (1900). 

THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  SEA. 

And  now,  how  can  I  retrace  the  impression  left  by  me 
upon  that  walk  under  the  waters?  Words  are  impo¬ 
tent  to  relate  such  wonders  !  Captain  Nemo  walked  in 
front,  his  companions  followed  some  steps  behind.  Con- 
seil  and  I  remained  near  each  other,  as  if  an  exchange 
of  words  had  been  possible  through  our  metallic  cases. 
I  no  longer  felt  the  weight  of  my  clothing,  or  my  shoes, 
of  my  reservoir  of  air,  or  of  my  thick  helmet,  in  the 
midst  of  which  my  head  rattled  like  an  almond  in  his 
shell. 

The  light,  which  lit  the  soil  thirty  feet  below  the  sur¬ 
face  of  the  ocean,  astonished  me  by  its  power.  The 
solar  rays  shone  through  the  watery  mass  easily  and 
dissipated  all  color,  and  I  clearly  distinguished  objects 
at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards.  Beyond  that 
the  tints  darkened  into  fine  gradations  of  ultramarine, 
and  faded  into  vague  obscurity.  Truly  this  water  which 
surrounded  me  was  but  another  air  denser  than  the  ter¬ 
restrial  atmosphere  but  almost  as  transparent.  Above 
me  was  the  calm  surface  of  the  sea.  We  were  walking 
on  fine,  even  sand,  not  wrinkled,  as  on  a  flat  shore, 
which  retains  the  impression  of  the  billows.  This  daz¬ 
zling  carpet,  really  a  reflector,  repelled  the  rays  of  the 


JULES  VERNE 


135 


sun  with  wonderful  intensity,  which  accounted  for  the 
vibration  which  penetrated  every  atom  of  liquid.  Shall 
I  be  believed  when  I  say  that,  at  the  depth  of  thirty 
feet,  I  could  see  as  if  I  was  in  broad  daylight? 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  trod  on  this  sand  sown 
with  the  impalpable  dust  of  shells.  The  hull  of  the 
Nautilus,  resembling  a  long  shoal,  disappeared  by  de¬ 
grees;  but  its  lantern,  when  darkness  should  overtake 
us  in  the  waters,  would  help  to  guide  us  on  board  by  its 
distinct  rays.  Soon  forms  of  objects  outlined  in  the 
distance  were  discernible.  I  recognized  magnificent  rocks, 
hung  with  a  tapestry  of  zoophytes  of  the  most  beautiful 
kind,  and  I  was  at  first  struck  by  the  peculiar  effect  of  this 
medium. 

It  was  then  ten  in  the  morning,  the  rays  of  the  sun 
struck  the  surface  of  the  waves  at  rather  an  oblique 
angle,  and  at  the  touch  of  their  light,  decomposed  by 
refraction  as  through  a  prism,  flowers,  rocks,  plants, 
shell,  and  polypi  were  shaded  at  the  edges  by  the  seven 
solar  colors.  It  was  marvellous,  a  feast  for  the  eyes, 
this  complication  of  colored  tints,  a  perfect  kaleido¬ 
scope  of  green,  yellow,  orange,  violet,  indigo,  and  blue ; 
in  one  word,  the  whole  palette  of  an  enthusiastic  color¬ 
ist  !  Why  could  I  not  communicate  to  Conseil  the  lively 
sensations  which  were  mounting  to  my  brain,  and  rival 
him  in  expressions  of  admiration?  For  aught  I  knew, 
Captain  Nemo  and  his  companion  might  be  able  to  ex¬ 
change  thoughts  by  means  of  signs  previously  agreed 
upon.  So  for  want  of  better,  I  talked  to  myself ;  I  de¬ 
claimed  in  the  copper  box  which  covered  my  head,  thereby 
expending  more  air  in  vain  words  than  was,  perhaps, 
expedient. 

Various  kinds  of  isis,  clusters  of  pure  tuft-coral,  prickly 
fungi,  and  anemones,  formed  a  brilliant  garden  of  flow¬ 
ers,  enamelled  with  porplutse,  decked  with  their  collar¬ 
ettes  of  blue  tentacles,  sea-star  studding  the  sandy  bottom, 
together  with  asterophytons  like  fine  lace  embroidered 
by  the  hands  of  naiads ;  whose  festoons  were  waved  by  the 
gentle  undulations  caused  by  our  walk.  It  was  a  real 
grief  to  me  to  crush  under  my  feet  the  brilliant  specimens 
of  mollusks  which  strewed  the  ground  by  thousands,  of 


136 


JULES  VERNE 


hammer-heads,  donaciae  (veritable  bounding  shells),  of 
staircases,  and  red  helmet-shells,  angel-wings,  and  many 
others  producced  by  this  inexhaustible  ocean.  But  we 
were  bound  to  walk,  so  we  went  on,  whilst  above  our 
heads  waved  shoals  of  physalides,  leaving  their  tentacles 
to  float  in  their  train,  medusae  whose  umbrellas  of  opal  or 
rose-pink,  escalloped  with  a  band  of  blue,  sheltered  us 
from  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  fiery  pelagiae  which,  in  the 
darkness,  would  have  strewn  our  path  with  phosphor¬ 
escent  light. 

All  these  wonders  I  saw  in  the  space  of  a  quarter  of 
a  mile,  scarcely  stopping,  and  following  Captain  Nemo, 
who  beckoned  me  on  by  signs.  Soon  the  nature  of  the 
soil  changed;  to  the  sandy  plain  succeeded  an  extent 
of  slimy  mud,  which  the  Americans  call  “  ooze/’  com¬ 
posed  of  equal  parts  of  siliceous  and  calcareous  shells. 
We  then  traveled  over  a  plain  of  sea-weed  of  wild  and 
luxuriant  vegetation.  This  sward  was  of  close  texture, 
and  soft  to  the  feet,  and  rivalled  the  softest'  carpet  woven 
by  the  hand  of  man.  But  whilst  verdure  was  spread  at 
our  feet,  it  did  not  abandon  our  heads.  A  light  net-work 
of  marine  plants,  of  that  inexhaustible  family  of  sea¬ 
weeds  of  which  more  than  two  thousand  kinds  are  known, 
grew  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  I  saw  long  ribbons  of 
fucus  floating,  some  globular,  others  tuberous,  laurenciae 
and  cladostephi  of  most  delicate  foliage,  and  some  rhodo- 
menise  palmatae,  resembling  the  fan  of  a  cactus.  I  no¬ 
ticed  that  the  green  plants  kept  nearer  the  top  of  the  sea 
whilst  the  red  were  at  a  greater  depth,  leaving  to  the 
black  or  brown  hydrophytes  the  care  of  forming  gardens 
and  parterres  in  the  remote  beds  of  the  ocean. 

We  had  quitted  the  Nautilus  about  an  hour  and  a  half. 
It  was  near  noon ;  I  knew  by  the  perpendicularity  of  the 
sun’s  rays,  which  were  no  longer  refracted.  The  magical 
colors  disappeared  by  degrees,  and  the  shades  of  emerald 
and  sapphire  were  effaced.  We  walked  with  a  regular 
step,  which  rang  upon  the  ground  with  astonishing  inten¬ 
sity  ;  the  slightest  noise  was  transmitted  with  a  quickness 
to  which  the  ear  is  unaccustomed  on  the  earth;  indeed, 
water  is  a  better  conductor  of  sound  than  air,  in  the  ratio 
of  four  to  one.  At  this  period  the  earth  sloped  downward ; 


JULES  VERNE 


1 37 


the  light  took  a  uniform  tint.  We  were  at  a  depth  of  a 
hundred  and  five  yards  and  twenty  inches,  undergoing  a 
pressure  of  six  atmospheres. 

At  this  depth  I  could  still  see  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
though  feebly ;  to  their  intense  brilliancy  had  succeeded 
a  reddish  twilight,  the  lowest  state  between  day  and  night ; 
and  we  could  still  see  well  enough. —  Twenty  Thousand 
Leagues  Under  the  Sea. 

WE  START  ON  THE  JOURNEY. 

“  You  see,  the  whole  island  is  composed  of  volcanoes,” 
said  the  Professor,  “  and  remark  carefully  that  they  all 
bear  the  name  of  Yokul.  The  word  is  Icelandic,  and 
means  a  glacier.  In  most  of  the  lofty  mountains  of  that 
region  the  volcanic  eruptions  come  forth  from  ice-bound 
caverns.  Hence  the  name  applied  to  every  volcano  on 
this  extraordinary  island.” 

“  But  what  does  this  word  Sneffels  mean  ?  ” 

To  this  question  I  expected  no  rational  answer.  I  was 
mistaken. 

“Follow  my  finger  to  the  western  coast  of  Iceland; 
there  you  see  Reykjawik,  its  capital.  Follow  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  one  of  its  innumerable  fjords  or  arms  of  the  sea, 
and  what'  do  vou  see  below  the  sixty-fifth  degree  of  lati¬ 
tude  ?  ” 

“  A  peninsula, —  very  like  a  thigh-bone  in  shape.” 

“  And  in  the  centre  of  it  — ” 

“  A  mountain.” 

“Well,  that’s  Sneffels.” 

I  had  nothing  to  say. 

“  That  is  Sneffels, —  a  mountain  about  five  thousand 
feet  in  height,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in  the  whole 
island,  and  certainly  doomed  to  be  the  most  celebrated  in 
the  world,  for  through  its  crater  we  shall  reach  the  Cen¬ 
tre  of  the  Earth.” 

“  Impossible !  ”  cried  I,  startled  and  shocked  at  the 
thought. 

“Why  impossible?”  said  Professor  Hardwigg  in  his 
severest  tones. 


JULES  VERNE 


13S 

“  Because  its  crater  is  choked  with  lava,  by  burning 
rocks, —  by  infinite  dangers.” 

“  But  if  it  be  extinct?” 

“  That  would  make  a  difference.” 

“  Of  course  it  would.  There  are  about  three  hundred 
volcanoes  on  the  whole  surface  of  the  globe, —  but  the 
greater  number  are  extinct.  Of  these  Sneffels  is  one. 
No  eruption  has  occurred  since  1219;  —  in  fact  it  has 
ceased  to  be  a  volcano  at  all.” 

After  this  what  more  could  I  say?  Yes, —  I  thought  of 
another  objection. 

“  But  what  is  all  this  about  Scartaris  and  the  kalends 
of  July  —  ?  ” 

My  uncle  reflected  deeply.  Presently  he  gave  forth  the 
result  of  his  reflections  in  a  sententious  tone. 

“  What  appears  obscure  to  you,  to  me  is  light.  This 
very  phrase  shows  how  particular  Saknussemm  is  in  his 
directions.  The  Sneffels  mountain  has  many  craters. 
He  is  careful  therefore  to'  point  the  exact  one  which  is 
the  highway  into  the  Interior  of  the  Earth.  He  lets  us 
know,  for  this  purpose,  that  about  the  end  of  the  month 
of  June,  the  shadow  of  Mount  Scartaris  falls  upon  the 
one  crater.  There  can  be  no<  doubt  about  the  matter.” 

My  uncle  had  an  answer  for  everything. 

“  I  accept  all  your  explanations,”  I  said,  “  and  Saknus¬ 
semm  is  right.  He  found  out  the  entrance  to  the  bowels 
of  the  earth;  he  has  indicated  correctly;  but  that  he  or 
any  one  else  ever  followed  up  the  discovery,  is  madness 
to  suppose.” 

“  Why  so-,  young  man  ?  ” 

“  All  scientific  teaching,  theoretical  and  practical,  shows 
it  to-  be  impossible.” 

“  I  care  nothing  for  theories,”  retorted  my  uncle. 

“  But  is  it  not  well  known  that  heat  increases  one 
degree  for  every  seventy  feet  you  descend  into  the  earth  ? 
—  which  gives  a  fine  idea  of  the  central  heat.  All  the 
matters  which  compose  the  globe  are  in  a  state  of  incan¬ 
descence;  even  gold,  platinum,  and  the  hardest  rocks,  are 
in  a  state  of  fusion.  What  would  become  of  us  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  be  alarmed  at  the  heat,  my  boy.” 

“  How  so?” 


JULES  VERNE 


139 


“  Neither  you  nor  anybody  else  know  anything  about 
the  real  state  of  the  earth’s  interior.  All  modern  experi¬ 
ments  tend  to  explode  the  older  theories.  Were  any  such 
heat  to'  exist,  the  upper  crust  of  the  earth  would  be  shat¬ 
tered  to  atoms,  and  the  world  would  be  at  an  end.” 

A  long,  learned,  and  not  uninteresting  discussion  fol¬ 
lowed,  which  ended  in  this  wise :  — 

“  I  do  not  believe  in  the  dangers  and  difficulties  which 
you,  Henry,  seem  to  multiply;  and  the  only  way  to  learn 
is,  like  Arne  Saknussemm,  to  go  and  see.” 

“  Well,”  cried  I,  overcome  at  last,  “  let  us  go  and  see. 
Though  how  we  can  do  that  in  the  dark  is  another  mys¬ 
tery.” 

“  Fear  nothing.  We  shall  overcome  these,  and  many 
other  difficulties.  Besides,  as  we  approach  the  Centre,  I 
expect  to  find  it  luminous  — ” 

“  Nothing  is  impossible.” 

“  And  now  that  we  have  come  to  a  thorough  under¬ 
standing,  not  a  word  to  any  living  soul.  Our  success  de¬ 
pends  on  secrecy  and  despatch.” 

Thus  ended  our  memorable  conference,  which  roused  a 
perfect  fever  in  me.  Leaving  my  uncle,  I  went  forth  like 
one  possessed.  Reaching  the  banks  of  the  Elbe,  I  began 
to  think.  Was  all  I  had  heard  really  and  truly  possible? 
Was  my  uncle  in  his  sober  senses,  and  could  the  interior 
of  the  earth  be  reached?  Was  I  the  victim  of  a  madman, 
or  was  he  a  discoverer  of  rare  courage  and  grandeur 
of  conception? 

To  a  certain  extent  I  was  anxious  to  be  off.  I  was 
afraid  my  enthusiasm  would  cool.  I  determined  to  pack 
up  at  once.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  however,  on  my  way 
home,  I  found  that  my  feelings  had  very  much  changed. 

“  I’m  all  abroad,”  I  cried ;  “  ’tis  a  nightmare, —  I  must 
have  dreamed  it.” 

At  this  moment  I  came  face  to  face  with  Gretchen, 
whom  I  warmly  embraced. 

“  So  you  have  come  to  meet  me,”  she  said ;  “  how 
good  of  you.  But  what  is  the  matter?” 

Well,  it  was  no  use  mincing  the  matter;  I  told  her  all. 
She  listened  with  awe,  and  for  some  minutes  she  could 
not  speak. 


140 


JULES  VERNE 


“Well?”  I  at  last  said,  rather  anxiously. 

“What  a  magnificent  journey.  If  I  were  only  a  man! 
A  journey  worthy  of  the  nephew  of  Professor  Hardwigg. 
I  should  look  upon  it  as  an  honor  to  accompany  him.” 

“  My  dear  Gretchen,  I  thought  you  would  be  the  first 
to  cry  out  against  this  mad  enterprise.” 

“No;  on  the  contrary,  I  glory  in  it.  It  is  magnificent, 
splendid, —  an  idea  worthy  of  my  father.  Henry  Lawson, 
I  envy  you.” 

This  was,  as  it  were,  conclusive.  The  final  blow  of  all. 

When  we  entered  the  house  we  found  my  uncle  sur¬ 
rounded  by  workmen  and  porters,  who  were  packing  up. 
He  was  pulling  and  hauling  at  a  bell. 

“  Where  have  you  been  wasting  your  time?  Your  port¬ 
manteau  is  not  packed, —  my  papers  are  not  in  order, — 
the  precious  tailor  has  not  brought  my  clothes,  nor  my 
gaiters, —  the  key  of  my  carpet  bag  is  gone!” 

I  looked  at  him  stupefied.  And  still  he  tugged  away 
at  the  bell. 

“We  are  really  off,  then?”  I  said. 

“Yes,  of  course, —  and  yet  you  go  out  for  a  stroll, 
unfortunate  boy !  ” 

“  And  when  do  we  go  ?  ” 

“  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  daybreak.” 

I  heard  no  more ;  but  darted  off  to  my  little  bedchamber 
and  locked  myself  in.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it  now. 
My  uncle  had  been  hard  at  work  all  the  afternoon.  The 
garden  was  full  of  ropes,  rope-ladders,  torches,  gourds, 
iron  clamps,  crow-bars,  alpenstocks,  and  pickaxes. — 
enough  to  load  ten  men. 

I  passed  a  terrible  night.  I  was  called  early  the  next 
day,  to  learn  that  the  resolution  of  my  uncle  was  un¬ 
changed  and  irrevocable.  I  also'  found  my  cousin  and 
affianced  wife  as  warm  on  the  subject  as  was  her  father. 

Next  day,  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning,  the  post- 
chaise  was  at  the  door.  Gretchen  and  the  old  cook  re¬ 
ceived  the  keys  of  the  house;  and,  scarcely  pausing  to 
wish  any  one  good-by,  we  started  on  our  adventurous 
journey  into  the  Centre  of  the  Earth. —  A  Journey  to  the 
Centre  of  the  Earth. 


JULES  VERNE 


141 


FIRST  LESSONS  IN  CLIMBING. 

At  Altona,  a  suburb  of  Hamburg,  is  the  Chief  Station 
of  the  Kiel  railway,  which  was  to  take  us  to  the  shores 
of  the  Belt.  In  twenty  minutes  from  the  moment  of  our 
departure  we  were  in  Holstein,  and  our  carriage  entered 
the  station.  Our  heavy  luggage  was  taken  out,  weighed, 
labelled,  and  placed  in  a  huge  van.  We  then  took  our 
tickets,  and  exactly  at  seven  o’clock  were  seated  opposite 
each  other  in  a  first-class  railway  carriage. 

My  uncle  said  nothing.  He  was  too  busy  examining 
his  papers,  among  which  of  course  was  the  famous  parch¬ 
ment,  and  some  letters  of  introduction  from  the  Danish 
consul,  which  were  to  pave  the  way  to  an  introduction 
to  the  Governor  of  Iceland.  My  only  amusement  was 
looking  out  of  the  window.  But  as  we  passed  through  a 
flat  though  fertile  country,  this  occupation  was  slightly 
monotonous.  In  three  hours  we  reached  Kiel,  and  our 
baggage  was  at  once  transferred  to  the  steamer. 

We  had  now  a  day  before  us,  a  delay  of  about  ten 
hours ;  which  fact  put  my  uncle  in  a  towering  passion. 
We  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  about  the  pretty  town 
and  bay.  At  length,  however,  we  went  on  board,  and 
at  half  past  ten  were  steaming  down  the  Great  Belt.  It 
was  a  dark  night,  with  a  strong  breeze  and  a  rough  sea, 
nothing  being  visible  but  the  occasional  fires  on  shore, 
with  here  and  there  a  lighthouse.  At  seven  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  we  left  Korsor,  a  little  town  on  the  western  side  of 
Seeland. 

Here  we  took  another  railway,  which  in  three  hours 
brought  us  to  the  capital,  Copenhagen,  where,  scarcely 
taking  time  for  refreshment,  my  uncle  hurried  out  to 
present  one  of  his  letters  of  introduction.  It  was  to  the 
director  of  the  Museum  of  Antiquities,  who,  having  been 
informed  that  we  were  tourists  bound  for  Iceland,  did 
all  he  could  to  assist  us.  One  wretched  hope  sustained 
me  now.  Perhaps  no  vessel  was  bound  for  such  distant 
parts. 

Alas!  a  little  Danish  schooner,  the  Valkyrie,  was  to 
sail  on  the  second  of  June  for  Reykjawik.  The  captain, 
M.  Bjarne,  was  on  board,  and  was  rather  surprised  at 


142 


JULES  VERNE 


the  energy  and  cordiality  with  which  his  future  passenger 
shook  him  by  the  hand.  To  him  a  voyage  to  Iceland  was 
merely  a  matter  of  course.  My  uncle,  on  the  other  hand, 
considered  the  event  of  sublime  importance.  The  honest 
sailor  took  advantage  of  the  Professor’s  enthusiasm  to 
double  the  fare. 

“  On  Tuesday  morning  at  seven  o’clock  be  on  board,” 
said  M.  Bjarne,  handing  us  our  receipts. 

“  Excellent !  Capital !  Glorious  !  ”  remarked  my  un¬ 
cle,  as  we  sat  down  to  a  late  breakfast ;  “  refresh  your¬ 
self,  my  boy,  and  we  will  take  a  run  through  the  town.” 

Our  meal  concluded,  we  went  to  the  Kongens-Nye- 
Torw;  to  the  King’s  magnificent  palace;  to  the  beautiful 
bridge  over  the  canal  near  the  Museum;  to  the  immense 
cenotaph  of  Thorwaldsen,  with  its  hideous  naval  groups ; 
to  the  castle  of  Rosenberg;  and  to  all  the  other  lions  of 
the  place, —  none  of  which  my  uncle  even  saw,  so  ab¬ 
sorbed  was  he  in  his  anticipated  triumphs. 

But  one  thing  struck  his  fancy,  and  that  was  a  certain 
singular  steeple  situated  on  the  Island  of  Amak,  which  is 
the  southeast  quarter  of  the  city  of  Copenhagen.  My 
uncle  at  once  ordered  me  to  turn  my  steps  that  way,  and 
accordingly  we  went  on  board  the  steam  ferry  boat  which 
does  duty  on  the  canal,  and  very  soon  reached  the  noted 
dockyard  quay. 

In  the  first  instance  we  crossed  some  narrow  streets, 
where  we  met  numerous  groups  of  galley  slaves,  with 
parti-colored  trousers,  gray  and  yellow,  working  under 
the  orders  and  the  sticks  of  severe  task-masters,  and 
finally  reached  the  Vor-Frelser’s-Kirk. 

This  church  exhibited  nothing  remarkable  in  itself ; 
in  fact,  the  worthy  Professor  had  only  been  attracted  to 
it  by  one  circumstance,  which  was,  that  its  rather  ele¬ 
vated  steeple  started  from  a  circular  platform,  after  which 
there  was  an  exterior  staircase,  which  wound  round  to 
the  very  summit. 

“  Let  us  ascend,”  said  my  uncle. 

“  But  I  never  climb  church  towers,”  I  cried ;  “  I  am 
subject  to  dizziness  in  my  head.” 

“  The  very  reason  why  you  should  go  up.  I  want  to 
cure  you  of  a  bad  habit.” 


JULES  VERNE 


143 


“  But,  my  good  sir  — ” 

“  I  tell  you  to  come.  What  is  the  use  of  wasting  so 
much  valuable  time  ?  ” 

It  was  impossible  to  dispute  the  dictatorial  commands 
of  my  uncle.  I  yielded  with  a  groan.  On  payment  of  a 
fee,  a  verger  gave  us  the  key.  He,  for  one,  was  not  par¬ 
tial  to  the  ascent.  My  uncle  at  once  showed  me  the  way, 
running  up  the  steps  like  a  school-boy.  I  followed  as 
well  as  I  could,  though  no>  sooner  was  I  outside  the 
tower,  than  my  head  began  to  swim.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  eagle  about  me.  The  earth  was  enough  for  me, 
and  no  ambitious  desire  to  soar  ever  entered  my  mind. 
Still,  things  did  not  go  badly  until  I  had  ascended  one 
hundred  and  fifty  steps,  and  was  near  the  platform,  when 
I  began  to  feel  the  rush  of  cold  air.  I  could  scarcely 
stand,  when,  clutching  the  railings,  I  looked  upwards. 
The  railing  was  frail  enough,  but  nothing  to  those  which 
skirted  the  terrible  winding  staircase,  that  appeared,  from 
where  I  stood,  to  ascend  to  the  skies. 

“  Now  then,  Henry  !  ” 

“  I  can’t  do  it !  ”  I  cried,  in  accents  of  despair. 

“  Are  you,  after  all,  a  coward,  sir?”  said  my  uncle, 
in  a  pitiless  tone.  “  Go*  up,  I  say !  ” 

To'  this  there  was  no^  reply  possible.  And  yet  the  keen 
air  acted  violently  on  my  nervous  system ;  sky,  earth,  all 
seemed  to>  swim  round,  while  the  steeple  rocked  like  a 
ship.  My  legs  gave  way  like  those  of  a  drunken  man. 
I  crawled  upon  my  hands  and  knees;  I  hauled  myself  up 
slowly,  crawling  like  a  snake.  Presently  I  closed  my 
eyes,  and  allowed  myself  to  be  dragged  upwards. 

“  Look  around  you,”  said  my  uncle,  in  a  stern  voice ; 
“  Heaven  knows  what  profound  abysses  you  may  have  to 
look  down.  This  is  excellent  practice.” 

Slowly,  and  shivering  all  the  while  with  cold,  I  opened 
my  eyes.  What  then  did  I  see?  My  first  glance  was 
upwards  at  the  cold,  fleecy  clouds,  which  as  by  some 
optical  delusion  appeared  to  stand  still,  while  the  steeple, 
the  weathercock,  and  our  two  selves,  were  carried  swiftly 
along.  Far  away  on  one  side  could  be  seen  the  grassy 
plain,  while  on  the  other  lay  the  sea,  bathed  in  translu¬ 
cent  light.  The  Sund,  or  Sound,  as  we  call  it,  could  be 


144 


JULES  VERNE 


discovered  beyond  the  point  of  Elsinore,  crowded  with 
white  sails,  which,  at  that  distance,  looked  like  the  wings 
of  sea-gulls ;  while  to  the  east  could  be  made  out  the  far- 
off  coast  of  Sweden.  The  whole  appeared  a  magic  pan¬ 
orama. 

But,  faint  and  bewildered  as  I  was,  there  was  no  rem¬ 
edy  for  it.  Rise  and  stand  up  I  must.  Despite  my  pro¬ 
testations  my  first  lesson  lasted  quite  an  hour.  When, 
nearly  two  hours  later,  I  reached  the  bosom  of  mother 
earth,  I  was  like  a  rheumatic  old  man  bent  double  with 
pain. 

“  Enough  for  one  day,”  said  my  uncle,  rubbing  his 
hands ;  “  we  will  begin  again  to-morrow.” 

There  was  no  remedy.  My  lessons  lasted  five  days, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  period,  I  ascended  blithely  enough, 
and  found  myself  able  to  look  down  into  the  depths  be¬ 
low  without  even  winking,  and  with  some  degree  of 
pleasure. —  A  Journey  to  the  Centre  of  the  Earth. 

OUR  VOYAGE  TO  ICELAND. 

The  hour  of  departure  came  at  last.  The  night  before, 
the  worthy  Mr.  Thompson  brought  us  the  most  cordial 
letters  of  introduction  for  Count  Trampe,  Governor  of 
Iceland,  for  M.  Pictursson,  coadjutor  to  the  bishop,  and 
for  M.  Finsen,  mayor  of  the  town  of  Reykjawik.  In 
return,  my  uncle  nearly  crushed  his  hands,  so  warmly 
did  he  shake  them. 

On  the  second  of  the  month,  at  two  in  the  morning, 
our  precious  cargo  of  luggage  was  taken  on  board  the 
good  ship  Valkyrie.  We  followed,  and  were  very  politely 
introduced  by  the  captain  to  a  small  cabin  with  two 
standing  bed  places,  neither  very  well  ventilated  nor  very 
comfortable.  But  in  the  cause  of  science  men  are  ex¬ 
pected  to  suffer. 

“Well,  and  have  we  a  fair  wind?”  cried  my  uncle,  in 
his  most  mellifluous  accents. 

“An  excellent  wind!”  replied  Captain  Bjarne.  “We 
shall  leave  the  Sound,  going  free  with  all  sails  set,” 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  the  schooner  started  before 
the  wind,  under  all  the  canvas  she  could  carry,  and  en¬ 
tered  the  channel.  An  hour  later,  the  capital  of  Den- 


JULES  VERNE 


145 


mark  seemed  to  sink  into  the  waves,  and  we  were  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  coast  of  Elsinore.  My  uncle  was 
delighted;  for  myself,  moody  and  dissatisfied,  I  appeared 
almost  to  expect  a  glimpse  of  the  ghost  of  Hamlet. 

“  Sublime  madman,”  thought  I,  “  you,  doubtless,  would 
approve  our  proceedings.  You  might,  perhaps,  even  fol¬ 
low  us  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  there  to  resolve  your 
eternal  doubts.” 

But  no  ghost,  or  anything  else,  appeared  upon  the  an¬ 
cient  walls.  The  fact  is,  the  castle  is  much  later  than 
the  time  of  the  heroic  prince  of  Denmark.  It  is  now 
the  residence  of  the  keeper  of  the  Strait  of  the  Sound, 
and  through  that  Sound  more  than  fifteen  thousand  ves¬ 
sels  of  all  nations  pass  every  year. 

The  castle  of  Kronborg  soon  disappeared  in  the  murky 
atmosphere,  as  well  as  the  tower  of  Helsinborg,  which 
which  raises  its  head  on  the  Swedish  Bank.  And  here 
the  schooner  began  to  feel  in  earnest  the  breezes  of  the 
Cattegat.  The  Valkyrie  was  swift  enough,  but  with  all 
sailing  boats  there  is  the  same  uncertainty.  Her  cargo 
was  coal,  furniture,  pottery,  woolen  clothing,  and  a  load 
of  corn.  As  usual,  the  crew  was  small, —  five  Danes 
doing  the  whole  of  the  work. 

“How  long  will  the  voyage  last?”  asked  my  uncle. 

“  Well,  I  should  think  about  ten  days,”  replied  the 
skipper ;  “  unless,  indeed,  we  meet  with  some  northeast 
gales  among  the  Faroe  Islands.” 

“  At  all  events,  there  will  be  no  very  considerable  de¬ 
lay,”  cried  the  impatient  Professor. 

“  No,  Mr.  Hardwigg/’  said  the  captain,  “  no  fear  of 
that.  At  all  events,  we  shall  get  there  some  day.” 

Towards  evening  the  schooner  doubled  Cape  Skagen, 
the  northernmost  part  of  Denmark,  crossed  the  Skager- 
Rak  during  the  night, —  skirted  the  extreme  point  of 
Norway  through  the  gut  of  Cape  Lindness,  and  then 
reached  the  Northern  Seas.  Two  days  later,  we  were 
not  far  from  the  coast  of  Scotland,  somewhere  near 
what  Danish  sailors  call  Peterhead,  and  then  the  Valky¬ 
rie  stretched  out  direct  for  the  Faroe  Islands,  between 
Orkney  and  Shetland.  Our  vessel  now  felt  the  full  force 
of  the  ocean  waves,  and  the  wind  shifting,  we  with  great 
Vol.  XXIII. — 10 


146 


JULES  VERNE 


difficulty  made  the  Faroe  Isles.  On  the  eighth  day,  the 
captain  made  out  Myganness,  the  westernmost  of  the 
Isles,  and  from  that  moment  headed  direct  for  Portland, 
a  cape  on  the  southern  shores  of  the  singular  island  for 
which  we  were  bound. 

The  voyage  offered  no  incident  worthy  of  record.  I 
bore  it  very  well,  but  my  uncle,  to  his  great  annoyance, 
and  even  shame,  was  remarkably  sea-sick  !  This  mal  de 
mer  troubled  him  the  more,  that  it  prevented  him  from 
questioning  Captain  Bjarne  as  to  the  subject  of  Sneffels, 
as  to  the  means  of  communication,  and  the  facilities  of 
transport.  All  these  explanations  he  had  to  adjourn  to 
the  period  of  his  arrival.  His  time  meanwhile  was  spent 
lying  in  bed,  groaning,  and  dwelling  anxiously  on  the 
hoped-for  termination  of  the  voyage.  I  didn’t  pity  him. 

On  the  eleventh  day  we  sighted  Cape  Portland,  over 
which  towered  Mount  Myrdals  Yokul,  which,  the  weather 
being  clear,  we  made  out  very  readily.  The  Cape  itself 
is  nothing  but  a  huge  mount  of  granite,  standing  naked 
and  alone  to  meet  the  Atlantic  waves.  The  Valkyrie 
kept  off  the  coast,  steering  to  the  westward.  On  all  sides 
were  to  be  seen  whole  “  schools  ”  of  whales  and  sharks. 
After  some  hours  we  came  in  sight  of  a  solitary  rock 
in  the  ocean,  forming  a  mighty  vault,  through  which  the 
foaming  waves  poured  with  intense  fury.  The  islets  of 
Westman  appeared  to  leap  from  the  ocean,  being  so  low 
in  the  water  as  scarcely  to  be  seen  until  you  were  right 
upon  them.  From  that  moment  the  schooner  was  steered 
to  the  westward  in  order  to  round  Cape  Reykjaness,  the 
western  point  of  Iceland. 

My  uncle,  to  his  great  disgust,  was  unable  even  to  crawl 
on  deck,  so  heavy  a  sea  was  on,  and  thus  lost  the  first 
view  of  the  Land  of  Promise.  Forty-eight  hours  later, 
after  a  storm  which  drove  us  far  to  sea  under  bare  poles, 
we  came  once  more  in  sight  of  land,  and  were  boarded  by 
a  pilot,  who,  after  three  hours  of  dangerous  navigation, 
brought  the  schooner  safely  to  an  anchor  in  the  bay  of 
Faxa  before  Reykjawik. 

My  uncle  came  out  of  his  cabin,  pale,  haggard,  thin, 
but  full  of  enthusiasm,  his  eyes  dilated  with  pleasure  and 
satisfaction.  Nearly  the  whole  population  of  the  town 


JULES  VERNE 


M7 


was  on  foot  to  see  us  land.  The  fact  was  that  scarcely 
any  one  of  them  but  expected  some  goods  by  the  period¬ 
ical  vessel. 

Professor  Hardwigg  was  in  haste  to  leave  his  prison, 
or  rather  as  he  called  it,  his  hospital;  but  before  he  at¬ 
tempted  to  do  so,  he  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  led  me  to 
the  quarter-deck  of  the  schooner,  took  my  arm  with  his 
left  hand,  and  pointed  inland  with  his  right,  over  the 
northern  part  of  the  bay,  to  where  rose  a  high  two- 
peaked  mountain, —  a  double  cone  covered  with  eternal 
snow. 

“  Behold,”  he  whispered  in  an  awe-stricken  voice ; 
“  behold  —  Mount  Sneffels  !  ” 

Then  without  further  remark,  he  put  his  finger  to  his 
lips,  frowned  darkly,  and  descended  into  the  small  boat 
which  awaited  us.  I  followed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we 
stood  upon  the  soil  of  mysterious  Iceland ! 

Scarcely  were  we  fairly  on  shore  when  there  appeared 
before  us  a  man  of  excellent  appearance,  wearing  the 
costume  of  a  military  officer.  He  was,  however,  but  a 
civil  servant,  a  magistrate,  the  governor  of  the  island, — 
Baron  Trampe.  The  Professor  knew  whom  he  had  to 
deal  with.  He  therefore  handed  him  the  letters  from 
Copenhagen,  and  a  brief  conversation  in  Danish  fol¬ 
lowed,  to  which  I  of  course  was  a  stranger,  and  for  a 
very  good  reason,  for  I  did  not  know  the  language  in 
which  they  conversed.  I  afterwards  heard,  however, 
that  Baron  Trampe  placed  himself  entirely  at  the  beck 
and  call  of  Professor  Plardwigg. 

My  uncle  was  most  graciously  received  by  M.  Finsen, 
the  mayor,  who,  as  far  as  costume  went,  was  quite  as 
military  as  the  governor,  but  also,  from  character  and 
occupation,  quite  as  pacific.  As  for  his  coadjutor,  M. 
Pictursson,  he  was  absent  on  an  episcopal  visit  to  the 
northern  portion  of  the  diocese.  We  were  therefore 
compelled  to  defer  the  pleasure  of  being  presented  to 
him.  His  absence  was,  however,  more  than  compensated 
by  the  presence  of  M.  Fridriksson,  professor  of  natural 
science  in  the  college  of  Reykjawik,  a  man  of  invaluable 
ability.  This  modest  scholar  spoke  no  languages  save 
Icelandic  and  Latin.  When,  therefore,  he  addressed  him- 


1 48 


JULES  VERNE 


self  to  me  in  the  language  of  Horace,  we  at  once  came 
to  understand  one  another.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  only- 
person  that'  I  did  thoroughly  understand  during  the  whole 
period  of  my  residence  in  this  benighted  island. 

Out  of  three  rooms  of  which  his  house  was  composed, 
two  were  placed  at  our  service,  and  in  a  few  hours  we 
were  installed  with  all  our  baggage,  the  amount  of  which 
rather  astonished  the  simple  inhabitants  of  Reykjawik. 

“  Now,  Harry,”  said  my  uncle,  rubbing  his  hands,  “  all 
goes  well ;  the  worst  difficulty  is  now  over.” 

“How  the  worst  difficulty  over?”  I  cried,  in  fresh 
amazement. 

“  Doubtless.  Here  we  are  in  Iceland.  Nothing  more 
remains  but  to  descend  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.” 

“  Well,  sir,  to  a  certain  extent  you  are  right.  We 
have  only  to  go  down, —  but,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
that  is  not  the  question.  I  want  to  know  how  we  are  to 
get  up  again.” 

“  That  is  the  least  part  of  the  business,  and  does  not 
in  any  way  trouble  me.  In  the  meantime,  there  is  not 
an  hour  to  lose.  I  am  about  to  visit  the  public  library. 
Very  likely  I  may  find  there  some  manuscripts  from  the 
hand  of  Saknussemm.  I  shall  be  glad  to  consult  them.” 

“  In  the  meanwhile,”  I  replied,  “  I  will  take  a  walk 
through  the  town.  Will  you  not  likewise  do  so?” 

“  I  feel  no  interest  in  the  subject,”  said  my  uncle. 
“  What  for  me  is  curious  in  this  island,  is  not  what  is 
above  the  surface,  but  what  is  below.” 

I  bowed  by  way  of  reply,  put  on  my  hat  and  furred 
cloak,  and  went  out. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  lose  oneself  in  the  two 
streets  of  Reykjawik;  I  had  therefore  no  need  to  ask 
my  way.  The  town  lies  on  a  flat  and  marshy  plain,  be¬ 
tween  two  hills.  A  vast  field  of  lava  skirts  it  on  one 
side,  falling  away  in  terraces  toward  the  sea.  On  the 
other  hand  is  the  large  bay  of  Faxa,  bordered  on  the 
north  by  the  enormous  glacier  of  Sneffels,  and  in  which 
bay  the  Valkyrie  was  then  the  only  vessel  at  anchor. 
Generally  there  was  one  or  two  English  or  French  gun¬ 
boats,  to  watch  and  protect  the  fisheries  in  the  offing. 
They  were  now,  however,  absent  on  duty. 


JULES  VERNE 


149 


The  longest  of  the  streets  of  Reykjawik  runs  parallel 
to  the  shore.  In  this  street  the  merchants  and  traders 
live  in  wooden  huts  made  with  beams  of  wood,  painted 
red, —  mere  log  huts,  such  as  you  find  in  the  wilds  of 
America.  The  other  street,  situated  more  to  the  west, 
runs  towards  a  little  lake  between  the  residences  of  the 
bishop  and  the  other  personages  not  engaged  in  com¬ 
merce. 

I  had  soon  seen  all  I  wanted  of  these  weary  and  dismal 
thoroughfares.  Here  and  there  was  a  strip  of  discolored 
turf,  like  an  old  worn-out  bit  of  woolen  carpet;  and  now 
and  then  a  bit  of  kitchen  garden,  in  which  grew  pota¬ 
toes,  cabbage,  and  lettuces,  almost  diminutive  enough  to 
suggest  the  idea  of  Lilliput. 

In  the  center  of  the  new  commercial  street,  I  found 
the  public  cemetery,  enclosed  by  an  earthen  wall.  Though 
not  very  large,  it  appeared  not  likely  to  be  filled  for  cen¬ 
turies.  From  hence  I  went  to  the  house  of  the  Governor, 
— a  mere  hut  in  comparison  with  the  Mansion  House  at 
Hamberg,  but  a  palace  alongside  the  other  Icelandic 
houses.  Between  the  little  lake  and  the  town  was  the 
church,  built  in  simple  Protestant  style,  and  composed  of 
calcined  stones,  thrown  up  by  volcanic  action.  I  have 
not  the  slightest  doubt  that  in  high  winds  its  red  tiles 
were  blown  out,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  pastor 
and  congregation.  Upon  an  eminence  close  at  hand  was 
the  national  school,  in  which  were  taught  Hebrew,  En¬ 
glish,  French  and  Danish. 

In  three  hours  my  tour  was  complete.  The  general 
impression  upon  my  mind  was  sadness.  No  trees,  no 
vegetation,  so  to  speak, —  on  all  sides  volcanic  peaks, — 
the  huts  of  turf  and  earth, —  more  like  roofs  than  houses. 
Thanks  to  the  heat  of  these  residences,  grass  grows  on 
the  roof,  which  grass  is  carefully  cut  for  hay.  I  saw 
but  few  inhabitants  during  my  excursion,  but  I  met  a 
crowd  on  the  beach,  drying,  salting,  and  loading  cod-fish, 
the  principal  article  of  exportation.  The  men  appeared 
robust  but  heavy ;  fair-haired,  like  Germans,  but  of  pen¬ 
sive  mien, —  exiles  of  a  higher  scale  in  the  ladder  of 
humanity  than  the  Esquimaux,  but,  I  thought,  much  more 


150 


JULES  VERNE 


unhappy,  since,  with  superior  perceptions,  they  are  com¬ 
pelled  to  live  within  the  limits  of  the  Polar  Circle. 

Sometimes  they  gave  vent  to  a  convulsive  laugh,  but 
by  no  chance  did  they  smile.  Their  costume  consists  of 
a  coarse  capote  of  black  wool,  known  in  Scandinavian 
countries  as  the  “  vadmel,”  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  trousers 
of  red  serge,  and  a  piece  of  leather  tied  with  strings  for 
a  shoe, —  a  coarse  kind  of  moccasin. 

The  women,  though  sad-looking  and  mournful,  had 
rather  agreeable  features,  without  much  expression. 
They  wear  a  bodice  and  petticoat  of  sombre  vadmel. 
When  unmarried,  they  wear  a  little  brown  knitted  cap 
over  a  crown  of  plaited  hair ;  but  when  married,  they 
cover  their  heads  with  a  colored  handkerchief,  over 
which  they  tie  a  white  scarf. —  A  Journey  to  the  Centre 
of  the  Earth. 

THE  REAL  JOURNEY  COMMENCES. 

Our  real  journey  had  now  commenced. 

Hitherto  our  courage  and  determination  had  overcome 
all  difficulties.  We  were  fatigued  at  times;  and  that  was 
all.  Now,  unknown  and  fearful  dangers  we  were  about 
to  encounter. 

I  had  not  as  yet  ventured  to  take  a  glimpse  down  the 
horrible  abyss  into  which  in  a  few  minutes  more  I  was 
about  to  plunge.  The  fatal  moment  had,  however,  at 
last  arrived.  I  had  still  the  option  of  refusing  or  accept¬ 
ing  a  share  in  this  foolish  and  audacious  enterprise.  But 
I  was  ashamed  to  show  more  fear  than  the  eider-duck 
hunter.  Hans  seemed  to  accept  the  difficulties  of  the 
journey  so  tranquilly,  with  such  calm  indifference,  with 
such  perfect  recklessness  of  all  danger,  that  I  actually 
blushed  to  appear  less  of  a  man  than  he  ! 

Had  I  been  alone  with  my  uncle,  I  should  certainly 
have  sat  down  and  argued  the  point  fully;  but  in  the 
presence  of  the  guide  I  held  my  tongue.  I  gave  one 
moment  to  the  thought  of  my  charming  cousin,  and  then 
I  advanced  to  the  mouth  of  the  central  shaft. 

It  measured  about  a  hundred  feet  in  diameter,  which 
made  about  three  hundred  in  circumference.  I  leaned 
over  a  rock  which  stood  on  its  edge,  and  looked  down. 


JULES  VERNE 


I5i 

My  hair  stood  on  end,  my  teeth  chattered,  my  limbs 
trembled,  I  seemed  utterly  to  lose  my  centre  of  gravity, 
while  my  head  was  in  a  sort  of  whirl,  like  that  of  a 
drunken  man.  There  is  nothing  more  powerful  than  this 
attraction  toward  an  abyss.  I  was  about  to  fall  headlong 
into  the  gaping  well,  when  I  was  drawn  back  by  a  firm 
and  powerful  hand.  *  It  was  that  of  Hans.  I  had  not 
taken  lessons  enough  at  the  Frelser’s-kirk  of  Copenhagen 
in  the  art  of  looking  down  from  lofty  eminences  without 
blinking ! 

However,  few  as  the  minutes  were  during  which  I 
gazed  down  this  tremendous  and  even  wondrous  shaft,  I 
had  a  sufficient  glimpse  of  it  to  give  me  some  idea  of  its 
physical  conformation.  Its  sides,  which  were  almost  as 
perpendicular  as  those  of  a  well,  presented  numerous 
projections  which  doubtless  would  assist  our  descent. 

It  was  a  sort  of  wild  and  savage  staircase,  without 
banister  or  fence.  A  rope  fastened  above,  near  the  sur¬ 
face,  would  certainly  support  our  weight  and  enable  us 
to  reach  the  bottom,  but  how,  when  we  had  arrived  at 
its  utmost  depth,  were  we  to  loosen  it  above?  This  was, 
I  thought,  a  question  of  some  importance. 

My  uncle,  however,  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
nearly  always  prepared  with  expedients.  He  hit  upon  a 
very  simple  method  of  obviating  this  difficulty.  He  un¬ 
rolled  a  cord  about  as  thick  as  my  thumb,  and  at  least 
four  hundred  feet  in  length.  He  allowed  about  half  of 
it  to  go  down  the  pit  and  catch  in  a  hitch  over  a  great 
block  of  lava  which  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
This  done,  he  threw  the  second  half  after  the  first. 

Each  of  us  could  now  descend  by  catching  the  two 
cords  in  one  hand.  When  about  two  hundred  feet  below, 
all  the  explorer  had  to  do  was  to  let  go  one  end  and  pull 
away  at  the  other,  when  the  cord  would  come  falling 
at  his  feet.  In  order  to  go  down  farther,  all  that  was 
necessary  was  to  continue  the  same  operation. 

This  was  a  very  excellent  proposition,  and,  no  doubt,  a 
correct  one.  Going  down  appeared  to  me  easy  enough ; 
it  was  the  coming  up  again  that  now  occupied  my 
thoughts. 

“  Now,”  said  my  uncle,  as  soon  as  he  had  completed 


152 


JULES  VERNE 


this  important  preparation,  “  let  us  see  about  the  bag¬ 
gage.  It  must  be  divided  into  three  separate  parcels, 
and  each  of  us  must  carry  one  on  his  back.  I  allude  to 
the  more  important  and  fragile  articles.” 

My  worthy  and  ingenious  uncle  did  not  appear  to 
consider  that  we  came  under  that  denomination. 

“  Hans,”  he  continued,  “  you  will  take  charge  of  the 
tools  and  some  of  the  provisions ;  you,  Harry,  must  take 
possession  of  another  third  of  the  provisions  and  of  the 
arms.  I  will  load  myself  with  the  rest  of  the  eatables, 
and  with  the  more  delicate  instruments.” 

“  But,”  I  exclaimed,  “  our  clothes,  this  mass  of  cord 
and  ladders, —  who  will  undertake  to  carry  them  down  ?  ” 

“  They  will  go  down  of  themselves.” 

“And  how  so?”  I  asked. 

“  You  shall  see.” 

My  uncle  was  not  fond  of  half  measures,  nor  did  he 
like  anything  in  the  way  of  hesitation.  Giving  his  orders 
to  Hans,  he  had  the  whole  of  the  non-fragile  articles 
made  up  into  one  bundle ;  and  the  packet,  firmly  and 
solidly  fastened,  was  simply  pitched  over  the  edge  of  the 
gulf. 

I  heard  the  moaning  of  the  suddenly  displaced  air,  and 
the  noise  of  falling  stones.  My  uncle,  leaning  over  the 
abyss,  followed  the  descent  of  his  luggage  with  a  per¬ 
fectly  self-satisfied  air,  and  did  not  rise  until  it  had  com¬ 
pletely  disappeared  from  sight. 

“  Now  then,”  he  cried,  “  it  is  our  turn.” 

I  put  it  in  good  faith  to  any  man  of  common  sense, — 
was  it  possible  to  hear  this  energetic  cry  without  a  shud¬ 
der? 

The  Professor  fastened  his  case  of  instruments  on  his 
back.  Hans  took  charge  of  the  tools,  I  of  the  arms.  The 
descent  then  commenced  in  the  following  order:  Hans 
went  first,  my  uncle  followed,  and  I  went  last.  Our 
progress  was  made  in  profound  silence, —  a  silence  only 
troubled  by  the  fall  of  pieces  of  rock,  which,  breaking 
from  the  jagged  sides,  fell  with  a  roar  into  the  depths 
below. 

I  allowed  myself  to  slide,  so  to  speak,  holding  fran¬ 
tically  on  the  double  cord  with  one  hand  and  with  the 


JULES  VERNE 


153 


other  keeping  myself  off  the  rocks  by  the  assistance  of 
my  iron-shod  pole.  One  idea  was  all  the  time  impressed 
upon  my  brain.  I  feared  that  the  upper  support  would 
fail  me.  The  cord  appeared  to  me  far  too  fragile  to 
bear  the  weight  of  three  such  persons  as  we  were,  with 
our  luggage.  I  made  as  little  use  of  it  as  possible,  trust¬ 
ing  to  my  own  agility,  and  doing  miracles  in  the  way  of 
feats  of  dexterity  and  strength  upon  the  projecting 
shelves  and  spurs  of  lava,  which  my  feet  seemed  to 
clutch  as  strongly  as  my  hands. 

The  guide  went  first,  I  have  said,  and  when  one  of  the 
slippery  and  frail  supports  broke  from  under  his  feet  he 
had  recourse  to  his  usual  monosyllabic  way  of  speaking. 
“  Gifakt — ” 

“  Attention, —  look  out,”  repeated  my  uncle. 

In  about  half  an  hour  we  reached  a  kind  of  small  ter¬ 
race,  formed  by  a  fragment  of  rock  projecting  some  dis¬ 
tance  from  the  sides  of  the  shaft. 

Hans  now  began  to  haul  upon  the  cord  on  one  side 
only,  the  other  going  as  quietly  upward  as  the  other 
came  down.  It  fell  at  last,  bringing  with  it’  a  shower  of 
small  stones,  lava  and  dust,  a  disagreeable  kind  of  rain 
or  hail. 

While  we  were  seated  on  this  extraordinary  bench  I 
ventured  once  more  to  look  downwards.  With  a  sigh  I 
discovered  that  the  bottom  was  still  wholly  invisible. 
Were  we,  then,  going  direct  to  the  interior  of  the  earth? 

The  performance  with  the  cord  recommenced,  and  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later  we  had  reached  to  the  depth  of 
another  two  hundred  feet. 

I  have  very  strong  doubts  if  the  most  determined  geol¬ 
ogist  would,  during  that  descent,  have  studied  the  nature 
of  the  different  layers  of  earth  around  him.  I  did  not 
trouble  my  head  much  about  the  matter;  whether  we 
were  among  the  combustible  carbon,  silurians,  or  primi¬ 
tive  soil,  I  neither  knew  nor  cared  to  know. 

Not  so  the  inveterate  Professor.  He  must  have  taken 
notes  all  the  way  down,  for,  at  one  of  our  halts,  he  began 
a  brief  lecture. 

“  The  farther  we  advance,”  said  he,  “  the  greater  is 
my  confidence  in  the  result.  The  disposition  of  these 


154 


JULES  VERNE 


volcano  strata  absolutely  confirms  the  theories  of  Sir 
Humphry  Davy.  We  are  still  within  the  region  of  the 
primordial  soil ;  the  soil  in  which  took  place  the  chemical 
operation  of  metals  becoming  inflamed  by  coming  in 
contact  with  the  air  and  water.  I  at  once  regret  the  old 
and  now  for  ever  exploded  theory  of  a  central  fire.  At 
all  events,  we  shall  soon  know  the  truth.” 

Such  was  the  everlasting  conclusion  to  which  he  came. 
I,  however,  was  very  far  from  being  in  humor  to  discuss 
the  matter.  I  had  something  else  to  think  of.  My  silence 
was  taken  for  consent ;  and  still  we  continued  to  go  down. 

At  the  expiration  of  three  hours,  we  were,  to  all  ap¬ 
pearance,  as  far  off  as  ever  from  the  bottom  of  the  well. 
When  I  looked  upwards,  however,  I  could  see  that  the 
upper  orifice  was  every  minute  decreasing  in  size.  The 
sides  of  the  shaft  were  getting  closer  and  closer  together ; 
we  were  approaching  the  regions  of  eternal  night ! 

And  still  we  continued  to  descend  ! 

At  length,  I  noticed  that  when  pieces  of  stone  were 
detached  from  the  sides  of  this  stupendous  precipice,  they 
were  swallowed  up  with  less  noise  than  before.  The 
final  sound  was  sooner  heard.  We  were  approaching  the 
bottom  of  the  abyss ! 

As  I  had  been  very  careful  to  keep  account  of  all  the 
changes  of  cord  which  took  place,  I  was  able  to  tell 
exactly  what  was  the  depth  we  had  reached,  as  well  as 
the  time  it  had  taken. 

We  had  shifted  the  rope  twenty-eight  times,  each  oper¬ 
ation  taking  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  which  in  all  made 
seven  hours.  To  this  had  to  be  added  twenty-eight 
pauses;  in  all  ten  hours  and  a  half.  We  started  at  one; 
it  was  now,  therefore,  about  eleven  o’clock  at  night. 

It  does  not  require  great  knowledge  of  arithmetic  to 
know  that  twenty-eight  times  two  hundred  feet  make 
five  thousand  six  hundred  feet  in  all  (more  than  an  En¬ 
glish  mile). 

While  I  was  making  this  mental  calculation  a  voice 
broke  the  silence.  It  was  the  voice  of  Hans. 

“  Halt !  ”  he  cried. 

I  checked  myself  very  suddenly,  just  at  the  moment 
when  I  was  about  to  kick  my  uncle  on  the  head. 


JULES  VERNE 


155 


“We  have  reached  the  end  of  our  j ourney,”  said  the 
worthy  Professor,  in  a  satisfied  air. 

“  What,  the  interior  of  the  earth  ?  ”  said  I,  slipping 
down  to  his  side. 

“  No,  you  stupid  fellow !  but  we  have  reached  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  well.” 

“  And  I  suppose  there  is  no>  farther  progress  to  be 
made  ?  ”  I  hopefully  exclaimed. 

“  Oh,  yes ;  I  can  dimly  see  a  sort  of  tunnel,  which 
turns  off  obliquely  to  the  right.  At  all  events,  we  must 
see  about  that  to-morrow.  Let  us  sup  now,  and  seek 
slumber  as  best'  we  may.” 

I  thought  it  time,  but  made  no  observations  on  that 
point.  I  was  fairly  launched  on  a  desperate  course,  and 
all  I  had  to  do*  was  to  go  forward  hopefully  and  trust¬ 
ingly. 

It  was  not  even  now  quite  dark,  the  light  filtering  down 
in  a  most  extraordinary  manner. 

We  opened  the  provision  bag,  ate  a  frugal  supper,  and 
each  did  his  best  to  find  a  bed  amid  the  pile  of  stones, 
dirt,  and  lava,  which  had  accumulated  for  ages  at  the 
bottom  of  the  shaft. 

I  happened  to  grope  out  the  pile  of  ropes,  ladders,  and 
clothes  which  we  had  thrown  down ;  and  upon  them  I 
stretched  myself.  After  such  a  day’s  labor,  my  rough 
bed  seemed  as  soft  as  down  ! 

For  a  while  I  lay  in  a  sort  of  pleasant  trance. 

Presently,  after  lying  quietly  for  some  minutes,  I 
opened  my  eyes  and  looked  upwards.  As  I  did  so  I  made 
out  a  brilliant  little  dot,  at  the  extremity  of  this  long, 
gigantic  telescope. 

It'  was  a  star  without  scintillating  rays.  According  to 
my  calculations,  must  be  P  in  the  constellation  of  the 
Little  Bear. 

After  this  little  bit  of  astronomical  recreation,  I 
dropped  into  a  sound  sleep. —  A  Journey  to  the  Centre  of 
the  Earth. 


WE  CONTINUE  OUR  DESCENT. 

At  eight  o’clock  the  next  morning,  a  faint  kind  of  dawn 
of  day  awoke  us.  The  thousand  and  one  prisms  of  the 


156 


JULES  VERNE 


lava  collected  the  light'  as  it  passed,  and  brought  it  to  us 
like  a  shower  of  sparks. 

We  were  able  with  ease  to  see  objects  around  us. 

“  Well,  Harry,  my  boy/’  cried  the  delighted  Professor, 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  “  what  say  you  now  ?  Did 
you  ever  pass  a  more  tranquil  night  in  our  house  in  the 
Konig  Strasse?  No  deafening  sounds  of  cart-wheels, 
no  cries  of  hawkers,  no  bad  language  from  boatmen  or 
watermen  ?  ” 

“  Well,  uncle,  we  are  quiet  at  the  bottom  of  this  well ; 
but  to  me  there  is  something  terrible  in  this  calm.” 

“  Why,”  said  the  Professor,  hotly,  “  one  would  say 
you  were  already  beginning  to  be  afraid.  How  will  you 
get  on  presently?  Do  you  know  that,  as  yet,  we  have 
not  penetrated  one  inch  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  ?  ” 

“  What  can  you  mean,  sir  ?  ”  was  my  bewildered  and 
astonished  reply. 

“  I  mean  to  say  that  we  have  only  just  reached  the 
soil  of  the  island  itself.  This  long  vertical  tube,  which 
ends  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater  of  Sneffels,  ceases  here 
just'  about  on  a  level  with  the  sea.” 

“  Are  you  sure,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Quite  sure.  Consult  the  barometer.” 

It  was  quite  true  that  the  mercury,  after  rising  gradu¬ 
ally  in  the  instrument,  as  long  as  our  descent  was  taking 
place,  had  stopped  precisely  at  twenty-nine  degrees. 

“  You  perceive,”  said  the  Professor,  “  we  have  as  yet 
only  to  endure  the  pressure  of  air.  I  am  curious  to  re¬ 
place  the  barometer  by  the  manometer.” 

The  barometer,  in  fact,  was  about  to  become  useless, — 
as  soon  as  the  weight  of  the  air  was  greater  than  what 
was  calculated  as  above  the  level  of  the  ocean. 

“  But,”  said  I,  “  is  it  not  very  much  to  be  feared  that 
this  ever-increasing  pressure  may  in  the  end  turn  out 
very  painful  and  inconvenient?” 

“  No,”  said  he.  “  We  shall  descend  very  slowly,  and 
our  lungs  will  be  gradually  accustomed  to  breathe  com¬ 
pressed  air.  It  is  well  known  that  aeronauts  have  gone 
so  high  as  to  be  nearly  without  air  at  all ;  why,  then, 
should  we  not  accustom  ourselves  to  breathe  when  we 
have, —  say,  a  little  too  much  of  it?  For  myself,  I  am 


JULES  VERNE 


157 


certain  I  shall  prefer  it.  Let  us  not  lose  a  moment. 
Where  is  the  packet  which  preceded  us  in  our  descent?” 

I  smilingly  pointed  it  out  to  my  uncle.  Hans  had  not 
seen  it,  and  believed  it  caught  somewhere  above  us : 
“  huppe,”  as  he  phrased  it. 

“  Now,”  said  my  uncle,  “  let  us  breakfast,  and  break¬ 
fast  like  people  who  have  a  long  day’s  work  before 
them.” 

Biscuit  and  dried*  meat,  washed  down  by  some  mouth¬ 
fuls  of  water  flavored  with  schiedam,  was  the  material 
of  our  luxurious  meal. 

As  soon  as  it  was  finished,  my  uncle  took  from  his 
pocket  a  note-book  destined  to  be  filled  by  memoranda 
of  our  travels.  He  had  already  placed  his  instruments 
in  order,  and  this  is  what  he  wrote :  — 

Monday,  July  1st. 

Chronometer,  8h.  17m.  morning. 

Barometer,  29  degrees. 

Thermometer,  43  degrees  Fahrenheit. 

Direction,  E.  S.  E. 

This  last  observation  referred  to  the  obscure  gallery, 
and  was  indicated  to>  us  by  the  compass. 

“  Now,  Harry,”  cried  the  Professor,  in  an  enthusiastic 
tone  of  voice,  “  we  are  truly  about  to  take  our  first  step 
into  the  Interior  of  the  Earth ;  never  before  visited  by 
man  since  the  first  creation  of  the  world.  You  may  con¬ 
sider,  therefore,  that  at  this  precise  moment  our  travels 
really  commence.” 

As  my  uncle  made  this  remark,  he  took  in  one  hand 
the  Ruhmkorf  coil  apparatus,  which  hung  round  his  neck, 
and  with  the  other  he  put  the  electric  current  into  com¬ 
munication  with  the  worm  of  the  lantern.  And  a  bright 
light  at  once  illumined  that  dark  and  gloomy  tunnel ! 

The  effect  was  magical ! 

Hans,  who  carried  the  second  apparatus,  had  it  also 
put  into  operation.  This  ingenious  application  of  elec¬ 
tricity  to  practical  purposes  enabled  us  to  move  along  by 
the  light  of  an  artificial  day,  amid  even  the  flow  of  the 
most  inflammable  and  combustible  gases. 


158 


JULES  VERNE 


“  Forward !  ”  cried  my  uncle.  Each  took  up  his  bur¬ 
den.  Hans  went  first,  my  uncle  followed,  and  I  going 
third,  we  entered  the  sombre  gallery ! 

Just  as  we  were  about  to  engulf  ourselves  in  this  dis¬ 
mal  passage,  I  lifted  up  my  head,  and  through  the  tube¬ 
like  shaft  saw  that  Iceland  sky  I  was  never  to  see  again ! 

Was  it  the  last  I  should  ever  see  of  any  sky? 

The  stream  of  lava  flowing  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  in  1229,  had  forced  itself  a  passage  through  the 
tunnel.  It  lined  the  whole  of  the  inside  with  its  thick 
and  brilliant  coating.  The  electric  light  added  very 
greatly  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  effect. 

The  great  difficulty  of  our  journey  now  began.  How 
were  we  to  prevent  ourselves  from  slipping  down  the 
steeply-inclined  plane?  Happily  some  cracks,  abrasures 
of  the  soil,  and  other  irregularities,  served  the  place  of 
steps ;  and  we  descended  slowly,  allowing  our  heavy  lug¬ 
gage  to  slip  on  before,  at  the  end  of  a  long  cord. 

But  that  which  served  as  steps  under  our  feet,  became 
in  other  places  stalactites.  The  lava,  very  porous  in 
certain  places,  took  the  form  of  little  round  blisters. 
Crystals  of  opaque  quartz,  adorned  with  limpid  drops  of 
natural  glass  suspended  to  the  roof  like  lustres,  seemed 
to  take  fire  as  we  passed  beneath  them.  One  would  have 
fancied  that  the  genii  of  romance  were  illuminating  their 
underground  palaces  to  receive  the  sons  of  men. 

“  Magnificent,  glorious  !  ”  I  cried,  in  a  moment  of  in¬ 
voluntary  enthusiasm ;  “  what  a  spectacle,  uncle  !  Do  you 
not  admire  these  variegated  shades  of  lava,  which  run 
through  a  whole  series  of  colors,  from  reddish  brown  to 
pale  yellow, —  by  the  most  insensible  degrees  ?  And  these 
crystals, —  they  appear  like  luminous  globes.” 

“  You  are  beginning  to  see  the  charms  of  travel,  Mas¬ 
ter  Harry,”  cried  my  uncle.  “  Wait  a  bit,  until  we  ad¬ 
vance  farther.  What  we  have  as  yet  discovered  is 
nothing  —  onward,  my  boy,  onward!” 

It  would  have  been  a  far  more  correct  and  appropriate 
expression,  had  he  said,  “  Let  us  slide,”  for  we  were  go¬ 
ing  down  an  inclined  plane  with  perfect  ease.  The  com¬ 
pass  indicated  that  we  were  moving  in  a  southeasterly 
direction.  The  flow  of  lava  had  never  turned  to  the 


JULES  VERNE 


159 


right  or  the  left.  It  had  the  inflexibility  of  a  straight 
line. 

Nevertheless,  to  my  surprise,  we  found  no  perceptible 
increase  in  heat.  This  proved  the  theories  of  Humphry 
Davy  to  be  founded  on  truth,  and  more  than  once  I  found 
myself  examining  the  thermometer  in  silent  astonishment. 

Two'  hours  after  my  departure  it  only  marked  54  de¬ 
grees  Fahrenheit.  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  from 
this  that  our  descent  was  far  more  horizontal  than  ver¬ 
tical.  As  for  discovering  the  exact  depth  to  which 
we  had  attained,  nothing  could  be  easier.  The  Profes¬ 
sor,  as  he  advanced,  measured  the  angles  of  deviation 
and  inclination ;  but  he  kept  the  result  of  his  observa¬ 
tions  to  himself. 

About  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening,  my  uncle  gave 
the  signal  for  halting.  Hans  seated  himself  on  the 
ground.  The  lamps  were  hung  to  fissures  in  the  lava 
rock.  We  were  now  in  a  large  cavern  where  air  was 
not  wanting.  On  the  contrary,  it  abounded.  What 
could  be  the  cause  of  this, —  to  what  atmospheric  agita¬ 
tion  could  be  ascribed  this  draught?  But  this  was  a 
question  which  I  did  not  care  to  discuss  just  then.  Fa¬ 
tigue  and  hunger  made  me  incapable  of  reasoning.  An 
unceasing  march  of  seven  hours  had  not  been  kept  up 
without  great  exhaustion.  I  was  really  and  truly  worn 
out,  and  delighted  enough  I  was  to  hear  the  word  Halt. 

Hans  laid  out  some  provisions  on  a  lump  of  lava,  and 
we  each  supped  with  keen  relish.  One  thing,  however, 
caused  us  great  uneasiness, —  our  water  reserve  was  al¬ 
ready  half  exhausted.  My  uncle  had  full  confidence  in 
finding  subterranean  resources,  but  hitherto  we  had  com¬ 
pletely  failed  in  so  doing.  I  could  not  help  calling  my 
uncle’s  attention  to  the  circumstance. 

“  And  you  are  surprised  at  this  total  absence  of 
springs  ?  ”  he  said. 

“  Doubtless, —  I  am  very  uneasy  on  the  point.  We 
have  certainly  not  enough  water  to  last  us  five  days.” 

“  Be  quite  easy  on  that  matter,”  continued  my  uncle. 
“  I  answer  for  it  we  shall  find  plenty  of  water, —  in  fact, 
far  more  than  we  shall  want.” 

“  But  when  ?  ” 


i6o 


JULES  VERNE 


“  When  we  once  get  through  this  crust  of  lava.  How 
can  you  expect  springs  to  force  their  way  through  these 
solid  stone  walls  ?  ” 

“  But  what  is  there  to  prove  that  this  concrete  mass 
of  lava  does  not  extend  to  the  centre  of  the  earth?  I 
don’t  think  we  have  as  yet  done  much  in  a  vertical 
way.” 

“What  puts  that  into  your  head,  my  boy?”  asked  my 
uncle,  mildly. 

“  Well,  it'  appears  to  me  that  if  we  had  descended  very 
far  below  the  level  of  the  sea, —  we  should  find  it  rather 
hotter  than  we  have.” 

“  According  to  your  system,”  said  my  uncle ;  “  but 
what  does  the  thermometer  say  ?  ” 

“  Scarcely  15  degrees  by  Reaumur,  which  is  only  an 
increase  of  9  since  our  departure.” 

“Well,  and  what  conclusion  does  that  bring  you  to?” 
inquired  the  Professor. 

“  The  deduction  I  draw  from  this  is  very  simple.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  the  most  exact  observations,  the  augmenta¬ 
tion  of  the  temperature  of  the  interior  of  the  earth  is  1 
degree  for  every  hundred  feet.  But  certain  local  causes 
may  considerably  modify  this  figure.  Thus  at  Yakoust 
in  Siberia,  it  has  been  remarked  that  the  heat  increases 
a  degree  every  thirty-six  feet.  The  difference  evidently 
depends  on  the  conductibility  of  certain  rocks.  In  the 
neighborhood  of  an  extinct  volcano,  it  has  been  remarked 
that  the  elevation  of  temperature  was  only  1  degree  on 
every  five-and-twenty  feet.  Let  us,  then,  go  upon  this 
calculation,  —  which  is  the  most  favorable,  —  and  cal¬ 
culate.” 

“  Calculate  away,  my  boy.” 

“  Nothing  easier,”  said  I,  pulling  out  my  note-book 
and  pencil.  “  Nine  times  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
feet  make  a  depth  of  eleven  hundred  and  twenty-five 
feet.” 

“  Archimedes  could  not  have  spoken  more  geometri¬ 
cally.” 

“Well?” 

“  Well,  according  to  my  observations,  we  are  at  least 
ten  thousand  feet  below  the  level  of  the  sea.” 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK  161 

“  Can  it  be  possible  ?  ” 

“  Either  my  calculation  is  correct,  or  there  is  no  truth 
in  figures.” 

The  calculations  of  the  Professor  were  perfectly  cor¬ 
rect.  We  were  already  six  thousand  feet  deeper  down 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  than  any  one  had  ever  been 
before.  The  lowest  known  depth  to  which  man  had 
hitherto  penetrated  was  in  the  mines  of  Kitz-Bahl,  on 
the  Tyrol,  and  those  of  Wuttemburg  in  Bohemia. 

The  temperature,  which  should  have  been  eighty-one, 
was  in  this  place  only  fifteen.  This  was  a  matter  for 
serious  consideration. —  A  Journey  to  the  Centre  of  the 
Earth. 


^-g^ERPLANCK,  Gulian  Crommelin,  an  Amer- 
ican  jurist  and  essayist;  born  at  New  York, 
August  6,  1786;  died  at  Fishkill  Landing, 
N.  Y.,  March  18,  1870.  He  was  graduated  from 
Columbia  College  in  1801,  studied  law,  and  after  be¬ 
ing  admitted  to  the  bar  went  to  Europe,  where  he 
resided  several  years.  Upon  his  return  he  entered 
political  life,  and  was  elected  to  the  State  Legislature. 
In  1 822  he  was  appointed  Professor  of  the  Evidences 
of  Christianity  in  the  Episcopal  Theological  Seminary, 
New  York;  in  1824  he  published  a  volume  of  Essays 
on  the  Nature  and  Uses  of  the  Various  Evidences  of 
Revealed  Religion ,  and  the  next  year  a  legal  work 
on  The  Doctrine  of  Contracts.  In  1825,  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  Congress,  retaining  his  seat  for 
eight  years,  and  especially  distinguished  himself  by 
procuring  the  passage  of  a  bill  increasing  the  term 
of  copyright  from  twenty-eight  to  forty-two  years. 
In  1827,  in  conjunction  with  William  Cullen  Bryant 
Vol.  XXIII.— 11 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 


1 62 

and  Robert  C.  Sands,  he  published  The  Talisman ,  an 
illustrated  miscellany.  From  time  to  time  he  delivered 
discourses,  of  which  a  collection  was  published  in  1833, 
under  the  title,  Discourses  and  Addresses  on  Subjects 
of  American  History ,  Arts ,  and  Literature.  Later 
lectures  were  The  Right  Moral  Influence  of  Liberal 
Studies  (1833)  ;  The  Influence  of  Moral  Causes  upon 
Opinion ,  Science ,  and  Literature  (1834)  ;  The  Amer¬ 
ican  Scholar  (1836).  In  1847  he  completed  an  illus¬ 
trated  edition  of  Shakespeare’s  Plays ,  for  which  he 
furnished  Prefaces  and  Notes. 

JOHN  JAY. 

The  name  of  John  Jay  is  gloriously  associated  with 
that  of  Alexander  Hamilton  in  the  history  of  our  liber¬ 
ties  and  our  laws.  John  Jay  had  completed  his  aca¬ 
demic  education  in  Columbia  College  several  years  before 
the  commencement  of  the  Revolution.  The  beginning  of 
the  contest  between  Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies  found 
him  already  established  in  legal  reputation ;  and,  young 
as  he  still  was,  singularly  well  fitted  for  his  country’s 
most  arduous  services,  by  a  rare  union  of  the  dignity  and 
gravity  of  mature  age  with  youthful  energy  and  zeal. 
At  the  age  of  thirty  he  drafted,  and  in  effect  himself 
framed,  the  first  Constitution  of  the  State  of  New  York, 
under  which  we  lived  for  forty-five  years,  which  still 
forms  the  basis  of  our  present  State  Government,  and 
from  which  other  States  have  since  borrowed  many  of  its 
most  remarkable  and  original  provisions.  At  that  age, 
as  soon  as  New  York  threw  off  her  colonial  character, 
he  was  appointed  the  first  Chief  Justice  of  the  State. 

Then  followed  a  long,  rapid,  and  splendid  succession 
of  high  trusts  and  weighty  duties,  the  results  of  which 
are  recorded  in  the  most  interesting  pages  of  our  na¬ 
tional  history.  It  was  the  moral  courage  of  Jay,  at  the 
head  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  his  own  State,  that  gave 
confidence  and  union  to  the  people  of  New  York.  It  was 
from  his  richly  stored  mind  that  proceeded,  while  repre- 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK  1 63 

senting  this  State  in  the  Congress  of  the  United  States 
(over  whose  deliberations  he  for  a  time  presided),  many 
of  those  celebrated  State  papers  whose  grave  eloquence 
commanded  the  admiration  of  Europe,  and  drew  forth  the 
eulogy  of  the  master  orators  and  statesmen  of  the  time  — 
of  Chatham  and  Burke  whilst  by  the  evidence  which  they 
gave  to  the  wisdom  and  talent  that  guided  the  councils  of 
America,  they  contributed  to  her  reputation  and  ultimate 
triumph  as  much  as  the  most  signal  victories  of  her  arms. 
As  our  Minister  at  Madrid  and  Paris  his  capacity  pene¬ 
trated,  and  his  calm  firmness  defeated,  the  intricate  wiles 
of  the  diplomatists  and  Cabinets  of  Europe  until,  in  illus¬ 
trious  association  with  Franklin  and  John  Adams,  he 
settled  and  signed  the  definitive  treaty  of  peace,  recog¬ 
nizing  and  confirming  our  national  independence.  On  his 
return  home  a  not  less  illustrious  association  awaited 
him,  in  a  not  less  illustrious  cause  —  the  establish¬ 
ment  and  defence  of  the  present  National  Constitution, 
with  Hamilton  and  Madison.  The  last  Secretary  of  For¬ 
eign  Affairs  under  the  old  Confederation,  he  was  selected 
by  Washington  as  the  first  Chief  Justice  of  the  United 
States  under  the  new  Constitution.  His  able  negotiation 
and  commercial  treaty  with  Great  Britain,  and  his  six 
years’  administration  as  Governor  of  this  State,  completed 
his  public  life. 

After  a  long  and  uninterrupted  series  of  the  highest 
civil  employments,  in  the  most  difficult  times,  he  sud¬ 
denly  retired  from  their  toils  and  dignities,  in  the  full 
vigor  of  mind  and  body,  at  a  time  when  the  highest 
honors  of  the  nation  still  courted  his  acceptance  and  at 
an  age  when,  in  most  statesmen,  the  objects  of  ambi¬ 
tion  show  as  gorgeously,  and  its  apparitions  are  as  stir¬ 
ring  as  ever.  He  looked  upon  himself  as  having  fully 
discharged  his  debt  of  service  to  his  country;  and,  sat¬ 
isfied  with  the  ample  share  of  public  honor  which  he 
had  received,  he  retired  with  cheerful  content,  without 
ever  once  casting  a  reluctant  eye  toward  the  power  or 
dignities  he  had  left.  For  the  last  thirty  years  of  his 
remaining  life  he  was  known  to  us  only  by  the  occa¬ 
sional  appearance  of  his  name,  or  the  employment  of 
his  pen,  in  the  service  of  piety  or  philanthrophy.  A 


164 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 


halo  of  veneration  seemed  to  encircle  him,  as  one  be¬ 
longing  to  another  world,  though  yet  lingering  amongst 
us.  When,  during  the  last  year,  the  tidings  of  his  death 
came  to  us,  they  were  received  through  the  nation  with 
solemn  awe,  like  that  with  which  we  read  -the  mysterious 
passage  of  ancient  Scripture  —  “  And  Enoch  walked  with 
God;  and  he  was  not,  for  God  took  him.” — Address  at 
Columbia  College ,  1830. 

Shakespeare’s  name. 

The  right  orthography  of  the  great  poet’s  name  has 
been,  for  the  last  sixty  years,  as  disputed  and  doubtful  a 
question  as  any  other  of  the  many  points  which  have 
perplexed  and  divided  his  editors  and  critics.  Shake- 
spere,  Shakespeere,  Shakspeare,  Schackspeere,  Shax- 
speare,  Shakspear,  Shakespear,  Shakspere,  "  Shaxpere,  are 
among  the  variations,  of  more  or  less  authority;  besides 
one  or  two  others,  like  Shaxhred,  which  are  evidently 
blunders  of  a  careless  or  ignorant  scribe.  More  recent 
and  minutely  accurate  researches  seem  to  me  to  have 
proved,  from  the  evidence  of  deeds,  parish-registers, 
town-records,  etc.  (see  the  various  extracts  in  Collier’s 
Life),  that  the  family  name  was  Shakspere,  with  some 
varieties  of  spelling,  such  as  might  occur  among  illiterate 
persons  in  an  uneducated  age.  The  evidence  that  the 
poet  himself  considered  this  his  family  name  (which 
before  seemed  most  probable),  has  been,  within  a  few 
years,  confirmed  by  the  discovery  of  his  undoubted  auto¬ 
graph  in  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Florio’s  translation 
of  Montaigne,  in  folio  —  a  book  of  his  familiarity  with 
which  there  are  many  traces  in  his  later  works,  and  which 
he  has  used  in  the  way  of  direct  imitation,  and  almost  of 
transcription  in  the  Tempest,  act  II,  scene  1.  I  therefore 
fully  agree  with  Sir  Frederick  Madden,  in  his  tract  on 
this  point,  and  with  Mr.  Knight,  in  his  Biography  and 
Pictorial  edition  of  Shakespeare,  that  the  poet’s  legal  and 
habitual  signature  was  William  Shakspere.  Yet  I,  nev¬ 
ertheless,  concur  with  Dr.  Nares  (Glossary),  Mr.  Collier, 
Mr.  Dyce,  and  others,  in  retaining  the  old  orthography 
Shakespeare,  by  which  the  poet  was  alone  known  as  an 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 


165 


author,  in  his  own  day  and  long  after.  The  following 
reasons  seem  to  me  conclusive :  Whether  from  the  in¬ 
convenience  of  the  Stratford  mode  of  spelling  the  name 
not  corresponding  in  London  with  its  fixed  pronunciation, 
or  for  some  other  reason,  the  poet,  at  an  early  period 
of  his  literary  and  dramatic  career,  adopted,  for  all  public 
purposes,  the  orthography  of  Shakespeare.  His  name 
appears  thus  spelled  in  the  first  edition  of  his  Venus  and 
Adonis  (1593),  where  the  dedication  of  the  “first  heir 
of  his  invention  ”  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton  is  sub¬ 
scribed  at  full  length,  William  Shakespeare.  This  very 
popular  poem  passed  through  at  least  six  editions  during 
the  author’s  lifetime,  between  1593  and  1606,  and  sev¬ 
eral  more  within  a  few  years  after  his  death,  in  all  of 
which  the  same  spelling  is  preserved.  This  was  fol¬ 
lowed,  in  1594,  by  his  poem  of  Liter ece,  where  the  same 
orthography  is  preserved,  in  the  signature  to  the  dedi¬ 
cation  to  the  same  noble  friend  and  patron.  All  the  suc¬ 
ceeding  editions,  of  which  there  were  at  least  four  during 
the  author’s  lifetime,  retain  the  same  orthography. 
Again,  in  his  Sonnets,  first  printed  in  1609,  we  have  nearly 
the  same  orthography,  it  differing  only  in  printing  the 
name  Shake-speare. 

All  the  editions  of  Shakespeare’s  several  poems  differ 
from  those  of  his  plays  published  during  his  life  in  that 
typographical  accuracy  which  denotes  an  author’s  own 
care,  while  the  contemporary  old  quarto  editions  of  his 
plays,  published  separately,  commonly  swarm  with  gross 
errors  either  of  the  printer  or  the  copyist.  Again,  all 
those  editions  of  his  genuine  plays,  thus  published  during 
his  life,  as  well  as  others  falsely  ascribed  to  him,  concur 
in  the  same  mode  of  spelling  the  name,  it  being  given 
invariably  either  Shake-speare,  or  Shakespeare.  His 
name  appears  thus  in  at  least  sixty  title-pages  of  single 
plays,  published  by  different  printers,  during  his  own 
life.  Finally,  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623,  made  by 
his  friends  Heminge  and  Condell,  we  find  the  same 
orthography,  not  only  in  the  title  and  dedication,  and 
list  of  performers,  but  in  the  verses  prefixed  by  the  poet’s 
personal  friends,  Ben  Jonson,  Holland,  Digges  —  the  only 
variance  being  that  the  editors  and  Ben  Jonson  write 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 


1 66 

Shakespeare,  and  Digges  has  the  name  Shake-speare. 
All  the  succeeding  folios  retain  the  same  mode,  and  two 
at  least  of  those  were  published  while  many  of  the  poet’s 
contemporaries  still  lived.  Moreover,  all  the  poet’s  lit¬ 
erary  contemporaries,  who  have  left  his  name  in  print', 
give  it  in  the  same  way  —  as  Ben  Jonson,  several  times; 
Drayton,  Meares  (in  his  oft-quoted  list  of  Shakespeare’s 
works  written  before  1598)  ;  Allot  in  his  collection  called 
the  “  English  Parnassus  ”  —  with  several  others. 

So  again,  in  the  next  generation,  we  find  the  same 
mode  universally  retained  —  as,  for  example,  by  Milton, 
by  Davenant,  who  was  certainly  the  poet’s  godson,  and 
who  seems  to  have  been  willing  to  pass  for  his  illegiti¬ 
mate  son;  and  by  the  painstaking  Fuller.  The  last  writer, 
in  his  notice  of  Shakespeare,  in  his  Worthies  of  England, 
refers  to  “  the  warlike  sound  of  his  surname  (whence 
some  may  conjecture  him  of  military  extraction),  Hasti- 
vibrans,  or  Shakespeare.” 

The  heraldic  grant  of  armorial  bearings  confirmed  to 
the  poet,  in  his  ancestor’s  right,  bearing  the  crest  of  a 
falcon,  supporting  (or  brandishing)  a  spear,  etc.,  seems 
to  be  founded  on  the  very  same  signification  and  pro¬ 
nunciation  of  the  name.  Thus  Shakespeare  remained 
the  only  name  of  their  great  dramatist  known  to  the 
English  public,  from  1593,  for  almost  two  centuries 
after,  until,  in  the  last  half  of  the  last  century,  the  author¬ 
ity  of  Malone  and  his  fellow-commentators  substituted, 
in  popular  use,  Shakspeare  —  a  version  of  the  name  which 
has  the  least  support  of  any  of  the  variations. 

The  result  of  the  whole  evidence  on  this  point,  which 
in  regard  to  any  other  English  author  would  hardly  be 
worth  examining,  but  which  has-  its  interest  to  thousands 
of  Shakespeare’s  readers  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
is  simply  this :  The  poet,  for  some  reason,  thought  fit 
to  adapt  the  spelling  of  his  name  to  the  popular  mode 
of  pronouncing  it  according  to  the  pronunciation  of 
London  and  his  more  cultivated  readers ;  but  this  was 
done  in  his  public,  literary,  and  dramatic  character  only 
—  while  as  a  Warwickshire  gentleman,  and  a  burgher  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  he  used  his  old  family  orthog¬ 
raphy  in  the  form  he  thought  most  authentic. 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK  1 67 

Such  variations  in  the  spelling  of  surnames  were  not 
at  all  unusual  in  the  poet’s  age,  and  before,  and  half  a 
century  after,  of  which  many  instances  have  fallen  under 
my  own  casual  observation.  When  half  the  business  of 
life  is  transacted,  as  now,  by  cheques,  notes,  bills,  re¬ 
ceipts,  and  all  those  informal  evidences  of  contract  that 
the  old  law  contemptuously  designated  as  mere  “  parole 
contracts,”  although  written,  the  identity  of  spelling,  like 
a  certain  similarity  of  handwriting,  becomes  of  absolute 
necessity  for  all  persons  who  have  any  business  of  any 
kind.  In  the  older  modes  of  life,  where  few  transactions 
were  valid  without  the  attestation  of  a  seal  and  witnesses, 
both  law  and  usage  were  satisfied  with  the  similarity  of 
sounds  (the  idem  sonans  of  the  courts),  and  a  man  might 
vary  his  signature  as  he  pleased.  Thus  the  poet  could 
see  no  objection  to  having,  like  his  own  Falstaff,  one 
name  for  his  family  and  townsfolk,  and  another  for  the 
public  —  Shakespere  for  his  domestic  use  and  his  concerns 
at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  Shakespeare  for  the  rest 
of  England  —  we  may  add,  though  he  did  not,  for  pos¬ 
terity,  and  the  whole  world. 

hamlet’s  madness. 

Hamlet,  after  the  interview  with  his  father’s  spirit, 
has  announced  to  his  friends  his  probable  intent  “  to 
bear  himself  strange  and  odd,”  and  put  on  an  “  antic  dis¬ 
position.”  But  the  poet  speaks  his  own  meaning  through 
Hamlet’s  mouth,  when  he  makes  the  prince  assure  his 
mother,  “  It  is  not  madness.”  The  madness  is  but  sim¬ 
ulated.  Still,  it  is  not  “  cool  reason  ”  that  directs  his 
conduct  and  governs  his  impulses.  His  weakness  and  his 
melancholy,  the  weariness  of  life,  the  intruding  thoughts 
of  suicide,  the  abrupt'  transitions,  the  towering  passion, 
the  wild  or  scornful  levity,  the  infirmity  of  purpose  — 
these  are  not  feigned.  They  indicate  crushed  affections 
and  blighted  hopes.  They  show  the  sovereign  reason  — 
not  overthrown  by  disease,  not  captive  to  any  illusion, 
not  paralyzed  in  its  power  of  attention  and  coherent 
thought  —  but  perplexed,  darkened,  distracted  by  natural 
and  contending  emotions  from  real  causes.  His  mind  is 


1 68  GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 

overwhelmed  with  the  oppressive  sense  of  supernatural 
horrors,  of  more  horrible  earthly  wrongs,  and  terrible 
duties.  Such  causes  would  throw  any  mind  from  its  pro¬ 
priety;  but  it  is  the  sensitive,  meditative,  yet  excitable 
and  kind-hearted  prince,  quick  in  feeling,  warm  in  affec¬ 
tion,  rich  in  thought,  “  full  of  large  discourse,  looking 
before  and  after,”  yet  (perhaps  on  account  of  those  very 
endowments),  feeble  in  will  and  irresolute  in  act.  He  it 
is,  who 

“  Hath  a  father  killed,  and  mother  stain’d, 
Excitements  of  his  reason  and  his  blood.” 

Marked  and  peculiar  as  is  his  character,  he  is  yet,  in 
this,  the  personification  of  a  general  truth  of  human  na¬ 
ture,  exemplified  a  thousand  times .  in  the  biography  of 
eminent  men.  He  shows  the  ordinary  incompatibility  of 
high  perfection  of  the  meditative  mind,  whether  poetical 
or  philosophical  (and  Hamlet  is  both),  with  the  strong 
will,  the  prompt  and  steady  determination  that  give  en¬ 
ergy  and  success  in  the  active  contests  of  life. 

It  is  thus  that,  under  extraordinary  and  terrible  cir¬ 
cumstances  impelling  him  to  action,  Hamlet’s  energies 
are  bent  up  to  one  great  and  engrossing  object,  and  still 
he  shrinks  back  from  the  execution  of  his  resolves,  and 
would  willingly  find  refuge  in  the  grave. 

It  may  be  said  that,  after  all,  this  view  of  Hamlet’s 
mental  infirmity  differs  from  the  theory  of  his  insanity 
only  in  words ;  that  the  unsettled  mind,  the  morbid  melan¬ 
choly,  the  inconstancy  of  purpose,  are  but,  in  other  lan¬ 
guage,  the  description  of  a  species  of  madness.  In  one 
sense  this  may  be  true.  Thin  partitions  divide  the  excite¬ 
ment  of  passion,  the  absorbing  pursuit  of  trifles,  the  delu¬ 
sions  of  vanity,  the  malignity  of  revenge  —  in  short,  any 
of  the  follies  or  vices  that  “  flesh  is  heir  to  ”  —  from  the 
stage  of  physical  or  mental  disease,  which  in  the  law  of 
every  civilized  people  causes  the  sufferer  to  be  regarded 
as  “  of  unsound  mind  and  memory,”  incompetent  to  dis¬ 
charge  the  duties  of  society,  and  no  longer  to  be  trusted 
with  its  privileges.  It  was  from  the  conviction  of  this 
truth  that  a  distinguished  and  acute  physician,  of  great 
eminence  and  experience  in  the  treatment  of  insanity 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK  169 

(Dr.  Haslam),  was  led,  in  the  course  of  a  legal  inquiry, 

in  reply  to  the  customary  question,  “  Was  Miss  B - 

of  sound  mind  ?  ”  to  astonish  his  professional  audience 
by  asserting  that  he  had  “  never  known  any  human  being 
of  sound  mind.” 

But  the  poet’s  distinction  is  the  plain  and  ordinary 
one.  It  is  that  between  the  irregular,  fevered  action  of 
an  intellect  excited,  goaded,  oppressed,  and  disturbed 
by  natural  thoughts  and  real  causes  too  powerful  for  its 
control  —  and  the  same  mind,  after  it  has  been  affected 
by  the  change  (modern  science  would  say,  by  that  physical 
change)  which  may  deprive  the  sufferer  of  his  power  of 
coherent  reasoning,  or  else  inflict  upon  him  some  self- 
formed  delusion  influencing  all  his  perceptions,  opinions, 
and  conduct.  If,  instead  of  the  conventional  reality  of 
the  ghostly  interview,  Hamlet  had  been  painted  as  acting 
under  the  impulses  of  the  self-raised  phantoms  of  an 
overheated  brain,  that  would  be  insanity  in  the  customary 
sense,  in  which,  as  a  morbid  physical  affection,  it  is  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  fitful  struggles  of  a  wounded  spirit 
—  of  a  noble  mind  torn  with  terrible  and  warring 
thoughts. 

This  is  the  difference  between  Lear,  in  the  agony  of 
intolerable  passion  from  real  and  adequate  causes,  and 
the  Lear  of  the  stormy  heath,  holding  an  imaginary 
court  of  justice  upon  Goneril  and  her  sister. 

Now  as  to  this  scene  with  Ophelia.  How  does  it  cor¬ 
respond  with  this  understanding  of  the  poet’s  intent? 

Critics  of  the  highest  authority  in  taste  and  feeling 
have  accounted  for  Hamlet’s  conduct  solely  upon  the 
ground  of  the  absorbing  and  overwhelming  influence  of 
the  one  paramount  thought  which  renders  hopeless  and 
worthless  all  that  formerly  occupied  his  affections.  The 
view  is,  in  conception  and  feeling,  worthy  of  the  poet;  but 
it  is  not  directly  supported  by  a  single  line  in  his  text, 
while  it  overlooks  the  fact  that  he  has  taken  pains  to 
mark,  as  an  incident  of  his  plot,  the  unfortunate  effect 
upon  Hamlet’s  mind  of  Ophelia’s  too  confiding  obedience 
to  her  father’s  suspicious  caution.  The  author  could  not 
mean  that  this  scene  should  be  regarded  as  a  sudden  and 
causeless  outbreak  of  passion,  unconnected  with  any  prior 


i;o 


GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VERPLANCK 


interview  with  Ophelia.  He  has  shown  us  that,  immedi¬ 
ately  after  the  revelation  of  the  murder,  the  suspicious 
policy  of  Polonius  compels  his  daughter  to  “  repel  Ham¬ 
let's  letters,”  and  deny  him  access.  This  leads  to  that 
interview  so  touchingly  described  by  Ophelia  —  of  silent 
but  piteous  expostulation,  of  sorrow,  suspicion,  and  un¬ 
uttered  reproach : 

“  With  his  other  hand  thus,  o’er  his  brow, 

He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face 
As  he  would  draw  it.” 

This  silence,  more  eloquent  than  words,  implies  a  con¬ 
flict  of  mixed  emotions,  which  the  poet  himself  was  con¬ 
tent  to  suggest,  without  caring  to  analyze  it  in  words. 
Whatever  these  emotions  were,  they  had  no  mixture  of 
levity,  anger,  or  indifference. 

When  the  Prince  again  meets  Ophelia  it  is  with  calm 
and  solemn  courtesy.  She  renews  the  recollection  of 
her  former  refusal  of  his  letters,  by  returning  “  the  re¬ 
membrances  of  his  that  she  had  longed  to  re-deliver.” 
The  reader  knows  that,  in  the  gentle  Ophelia,  this  is  an 
act,  not  of  her  will,  but  of  her  yielding  and  helpless 
obedience.  To  her  lover  it  must  appear  as  a  confirma¬ 
tion  of  her  abrupt  and  seemingly  causeless  breaking  off 
of  all  former  ties  at  a  moment  when  he  most  needed 
sympathy  and  kindness.  This  surely  cannot  be  received 
with  calmness.  Does  she,  too,  repel  his  confidence,  and 
turn  away  from  his  altered  fortunes  and  his  broken 
spirit?  The  deep  feelings  that  had  before  choked  his 
utterance  cannot  but  return.  He  wraps  himself  in  his 
cloak  of  assumed  madness.  He  gives  vent  to  intense 
emotion  in  agitated  and  contradictory  expressions  (“I 
did  love  you  once”  —  “I  loved  you  not”),  and  in  wild 
invective,  not  at  Ophelia  personally,  but  at  her  sex’s 
frailties.  In  short,  as  elsewhere,  where  he  fears  to  re¬ 
pose  confidence,  he  masks,  under  his  assumed  “  antic 
disposition,”  the  deep  and  real  ‘  excitement  of  his  reason 
and  his  blood.” 

This  understanding  of  this  famous  scene  seems  to  me 
required  by  the  poet’s  marked  intention  to  separate 


JONES  VERY 


171 

Ophelia  from  Hamlet’s  confidence,  by  Polonius  com¬ 
pelling  her  — 

“  —  To  lock  herself  from  his  resort; 

Admit  no  messenger,  receive  no  tokens.” 

All  which  would  otherwise  be  a  useless  excrescence 
on  the  plot.  It,  besides,  appears  so  natural  in  itself, 
that  the  only  hesitation  I  have  as  to  its  correctness  arises 
from  respect  to  the  differing  opinions  of  some  of  those 
who  have  most  reverenced  and  best  understood  Shake¬ 
speare’s  genius.  —  From  Shakespeare's  Plays. 


SERY,  Jones,  an  American  poet  and  essayist; 
born  at  Salem,  Mass.,  August  28,  1813;  died 
there,  May  8,  1880.  Entering  Harvard  at  the 
end  of  the  sophomore  year,  he  was  graduated  in  1836, 
and  was  a  tutor  in  Greek,  1836-38,  while  studying 
divinity.  In  1838  he  retired  to  Salem.  By  many  of 
his  eminent  contemporaries,  such  as  Emerson,  Bryant, 
Channing  and  Dana,  he  was  regarded  as  a  rare  phe¬ 
nomenon  of  originality  and  spirituality ;  and  the  re¬ 
corded  fragments  of  his  conversations  suggest  a  more 
unique  individuality  than  his  poems,  which,  however, 
are  full  of  delicate  grace  and  a  most  exalted  soul- 
experience,  comparable  to  that  of  Madame  Guion, 
Catharine  Adorna,  or  Edward  Payson.  He  believed 
that  his  poems  were  written  by  a  kind  of  Divine  in¬ 
spiration.  The  first  edition  was  prepared  by  Emerson, 
Essays  and  Poems ,  1839.  William  P.  Andrews  edited 
the  poems,  with  a  Memoir,  1883;  and  a  complete  edi¬ 
tion,  with  biography,  was  published  by  the  Rev.  James 
Freeman  Clarke  in  1886. 


172 


JONES  VERY 


TO  HIM  THAT  HATH  SHALL  BE  GIVEN. 

Why  readest  thou?  thou  canst  not  gain  the  life 
The  spirit  leads  but  by  the  spirit’s  toil : 

The  labor  of  the  body  is  not  strife 

Such  as  will  give  to  thee  the  wine  and  oil ; 

To  him  who  hath,  to  him  my  verse  shall  give, 

And  he  the  more  from  all  he  does  shall  gain ; 

The  spirit’s  life  he,  too,  shall  learn  to  live, 

And  share  on  earth  in  hope  the  spirit’s  pain ; 

Be  taught  of  God;  none  else  can  teach  thee  aught'; 
He  will  thy  steps  forever  lead  aright; 

The  life  is  all  that'  He  His  sons  has  taught; 

Obey  within,  and  thou  shalt  see  its  light, 

And  gather  from  its  beams  a  brighter  ray. 

To  cheer  thee  on  along  thy  doubtful  way. 

IN  HIM  WE  LIVE. 

Father  !  I  bless  Thy  name  that  I  do  live, 

And  in  each  motion  am  made  rich  with  Thee, 

That  when  a  glance  is  all  that  I  can  give, 

It'  is  a  kingdom’s  wealth,  if  I  but  see ; 

This  stately  body  cannot  move,  save  I 
Will  to  its  nobleness  my  little  bring; 

My  voice  its  measured  cadence  will  not  try, 

Save  I  with  every  note  consent  to  sing; 

I  cannot  raise  my  hands  to  hurt  or  bless, 

But  I  with  every  action  must'  conspire 

To  show  me  there  how  little  I  possess, 

And  yet  that  little  more  than  I  desire; 

May  each  new  act  my  new  allegiance  prove, 

Till  in  Thy  perfect  love  I  ever  live  and  move. 

THE  CLAY. 

Thou  shalt  do  what  Thou  wilt  with  Thine  own  hand, 
Thou  form’st  the  spirit'  like  the  moulded  clay ; 

For  those  who  love  Thee  keep  Thy  just  command, 

And  in  Thine  image  grow  as  they  obey; 


JONES  VERY 


1 73 


New  tints  and  forms  with  every  hour  they  take 
Whose  life  is  fashioned  by  Thy  Spirit’s  power; 
The  crimson  dawn  is  round  them  when  they  wake, 
And  golden  triumphs  wait  the  evening  hour ; 

The  queenly  sceptred  night  their  souls  receives, 

And  spreads  their  pillows  ’neath  her  sable  tent, 
Above  them  sleep  their  palm  with  poppy  weaves, 
Sweet  rest  Thou  hast  to  all  who  labor  lent, 

That  they  may  rise  refreshed  to  light  again 
And  with  Thee  gather  in  the  whitening  grain. 

THE  PRESENCE. 

I  sit  within  my  room,  and  joy  to  find 

That  Thou,  who  always  lov’st,  art  with  me  here, 
That  I  am  never  left  by  Thee  behind, 

But  by  Thyself  Thou  keep’st  me  ever  near. 

The  fire  burns  brighter  when  with  Thee  I  look, 

And  seems  a  kinder  servant  sent  to  me ; 

With  gladder  heart  I  read  Thy  holy  book, 

Because  Thou  art  the  eyes  with  which  I  see. 

This  aged  chair,  that  table,  watch,  and  door 
Around  in  ready  service  ever  wait ; 

Nor  can  I  ask  of  Thee  a  menial  more 
To  fill  the  measure  of  my  large  estate 
For  Thou  Thyself,  with  all  a  Father’s  care, 
Where’er  I  turn,  art  ever  with  me  there. 

THE  SABBATIA. 

The  sweet-brier  rose  has  not  a  form  more  fair 
Nor  are  its  hues  more  beauteous  than  thine  own, 
Sabbatia,  flower  most  beautiful  and  rare ! 

In  lonely  spots  blooming  unseen,  unknown. 

So  spiritual  thy  look,  thy  stem  so  light, 

Thou  seemest  not  from  the  dark  earth  to  grow ; 
But  to  belong  to  heavenly  regions  bright, 

Where  night  comes  not,  nor  blasts  of  winter  blow. 
To  me  thou  art  a  pure,  ideal  flower. 

So  delicate  that  mortal  touch  might  mar; 

Not  born,  like  other  flowers,  of  sun  and  shower, 


174 


JONES  VERY 


But  wandering  from  thy  native  home  afar 
To  lead  our  thoughts  to  some  serener  clime, 

Beyond  the  shadows  and  the  storms  of  time. 

THE  LATTER  RAIN. 

The  latter  rain  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid  waste 
As  if  it  would  each  root’s  lost  strength  repair; 
But  not  a  blade  grows  green  as  in  the  spring; 

No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening  leaves; 
The  robins  only  ’mid  the  harvests  sing, 

Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the  sheaves ; 
The  rain  falls  still  —  the  fruit  all  ripened  drops, 

It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell ; 

The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops ; 

Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell ; 

And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 

THE  SPIRIT-LAND. 

Father !  Thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand, 

Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  seldom  strayed; 
Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land, 

In  marvels  rich  to  Thine  own  sons  displayed 
In  finding  Thee  are  all  things  round  us  found; 

In  losing  Thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 

Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  strange  voices  sound; 

And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied ; 

We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote, 

’Mid  tombs  and  ruined  piles  in  death  to  dwell; 

Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote, 

And  for  a  buried  soul  the  living  cell ; 

While  on  our  path  bewildered  falls  the  night 
That  ne’er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 

NATURE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by, 
Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call; 


JONES  VERY 


I 


The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 

For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small. 

The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hillside  grows 

Expects  me  there  when  spring  its  bloom  has  given ; 

And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 

And  e’en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven; 

For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright, 

Shall  be  their  lord  as  Adam  was  before ; 

His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight. 

Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore; 

And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 

Hear  from  his  Father’s  lips  that  all  is  good. 

YOURSELF. 

’Tis  to  yourself  I  speak;  you  cannot  know 
Him  whom  I  call  in  speaking  such  a  one, 

For  you  beneath  the  earth  lie  buried  low, 

Which  he  alone  as  living  walks  upon ; 

You  may  at  times  have  heard  him ’speak  to  you, 

And  often  whispered,  perchance,  that  you  were  he ; 

And  I  must  ever  wish  that  it  were  true, 

For  then  you  could  hold  fellowship  with  me: 

But  now  you  hear  us  talk  as  strangers,  met 
Above  the  room  wherein  you  lie  abed; 

A  word  perhaps  loud  spoken  you  may  get, 

Or  hear  our  feet  when  heavily  they  tread ; 

But  he  who  speaks,  or  him  who’s  spoken  to, 

Must  both  remain  as  strangers  still  to  you. 

THE  DEAD. 

I  see  them  —  crowd  on  crowd  they  walk  the  earth, 

Dry,  leafless  trees  no  autumn  wind  laid  bare; 

And  in  their  nakedness  find  cause  for  mirth, 

And  all  unclad  would  winter’s  rudeness  dare ; 

No  sap  doth  through  their  clattering  branches  flow, 
Whence  springing  leaves  and  blossoms  bright  appear; 

Their  hearts  the  living  God  have  ceased  to  know 
Who  gives  the  spring-time  to  th’  expectant  year. 

They  mimic  life,  as  if  from  Him  to  steal 


176 


JONES  VERY 


His  glow  of  health  to  paint  the  livid  cheek ; 

They  borrow  words  for  thoughts  they  cannot  feel, 

That  with  a  seeming  heart  their  tongue  may  speak; 
And  in  their  show  of  life  more  dead  they  live 
Than  those  that  to  the  earth  with  many  tears  they  give. 

THE  SILENT. 

There  is  a  sighing  in  the  wood, 

A  murmur  in  the  beating  wave, 

The  heart  has  never  understood 
To  tell  in  words  the  thoughts  they  gave. 

Yet  oft  it  feels  an  answering  tone, 

When  wandering  on  the  lonely  shore, 

And  could  the  lips  its  voice  make  known, 
’Twould  sound  as  does  the  ocean’s  roar. 

And  oft  beneath  the  wind-swept  pine 

Some  chord  is  struck  and  strains  to  swell; 

Nor  sounds  nor  language  can  define  — 

’Tis  not  for  words  or  sounds  to  tell. 

’Tis  all  unheard,  that  Silent  Voice, 

Whose  goings  forth,  unknown  to  all, 

Bid  bending  reed  and  bird  rejoice, 

And  fill  with  music  Nature’s  hall. 

And  in  the  speechless  human  heart 

It  speaks,  where’er  man’s  feet  have  trod 

Beyond  the  lip’s  deceitful  art, 

To  tell  of  Him,  the  Unseen  God. 


THEOPHILE  DE  VI AU 


1 77 


fc^S^IAU,  Theophile  de,  a  French  poet;  born  at 
a^/x.  Clairac  in  1590;  died  at  Chantilly  in  1626. 

His  grandfather  had  been  secretary  to  the 
Queen  of  Navarre;  and  his  father  was  an  avocat  at 
Bordeaux.  His  youth  was  passed  in  the  little  village 
of  Bousseres  Sainte  Radegonde,  on  the  River  Lot, 
amid  scenes  which  he  never  tired  of  recalling  in  after 
years.  He  was  educated  by  Scotch  scholars ;  but  on 
leaving  school  he  fell  into  debaucheries  which  nearly 
ruined  him.  He  went  to  Paris  in  1610;  but  finding 
that  preferment  at  Court  was  impossible  for  the  son 
of  a  Huguenot,  he  withdrew  in  1612  to  the  Nether¬ 
lands,  where  he  learned  the  use  of  snuff  and  the  art  of 
getting  drunk  by  Dutch  rule.  Calvinist  as  Theophile 
was,  he  was  nevertheless  licentious,  both  in  his  con¬ 
duct  and  in  his  writings.  In  1619  he  found  it  expedient 
to  withdraw  to  England,  where  he  attempted  to  get 
an  introduction  to  James  I.;  but  that  Prince  refused 
to  see  him.  He  drifted  into  infidelity ;  but  seems  to 
have  found  it  convenient,  in  those  changing  times,  to 
be  now  a  Huguenot  and  now  a  Catholic,  as  occasion 
served.  A  work,  entitled  Le  Parnasse  Satirique, 
which  appeared  in  1622,  was  generally  understood  to 
be  the  production  of  de  Viau,  and  he  was  prosecuted 
for  it,  brought  to  Paris,  and  there  kept  in  prison  for 
two  years,  being  finally  banished.  His  health  was 
broken  by  his  sufferings  and  anxieties  in  the  prison, 
and  at  the  age  of  thirty-six  his  life  was  brought  to  an 
end.  His  works  consist  of  odes,  elegies,  sonnets, 
tragedies,  a  dramatic  dialogue  on  immortality  entitled 
Socrate  Mourant  and  apologies  for  himself. 

Viau  stands  out  a  clear  and  well-defined  individu- 
Vol.  XXIII.— 12 


178 


THEOPHILE  DE  VIAU 


ality,  one  of  those  who  are  not  mere  umbra,  reflectors 
of  other  men’s  genius ;  but  who  dare  to  be  independent, 
who  occupy  such  a  position  that  no  history  of  French 
literature  is  complete  without  them. 

LALAGE. 

Roses  and  lilies,  fair  to  view, 

Canst  in  my  garden  see; 

Brighter  thy  cheeks  with  either  hue, 

My  own  fair  Lalage. 

Evermore  young,  in  yonder  sky, 

Shines  Dian,  heavenly  fair; 

Heaven’s  pure  light  on  lover’s  eye, 

Beams  Lalage  the  rare. 

Beautiful  vision  of  the  skies, 

I  wake  to  see  but  thee ; 

All  the  day  long  these  ears,  these  eyes, 

Know  naught  but  Lalage. 

Cupid,  with  fire  and  shaft  and  bow, 

And  Graces  carved  in  white  — 

Everything  ’minds  me,  high  and  low, 

Of  Lalage,  my  light. 

—  Translation  of  J.  W.  Banta. 

THE  COUNTRY. 

Listen  !  the  birds  with  warbling  faint 
Lift  morning  hymns  to  yon  red  rays  — 

The  only  God  they  know  —  which  paint 
Fresh  glory  on  their  wings  and  ways. 

The  ploughshare  plunges  down  the  rows; 

The  ploughman  in  the  furrows  deep 
Strides  after,  rousing  as  he  goes, 

His  lazy  oxen,  half-asleep. 


LOUIS  MARIE  JULIEN  VIAUD 


179 


Night  flies  away;  the  murmurous  day 
Wakes  all  the  voices  of  the  light; 

And  life  and  truth,  for  age  and  youth. 

Drive  off  the  fantasies  of  night. 

Alidor,  deep  in  happy  sleep, 

Kisses  his  Iris  in  a  dream ; 

And  waking,  seeks  those  burning  cheeks, 

Which  still  beside  him  blushing  seem. 

The  blacksmith  at  his  anvil  stands  — 

See  how  the  quick  fire  ruddy  shows, 

Beneath  the  hammer  in  his  hands, 

The  iron  with  a  white  heat  glows. 

Yon  dying  candles  feebly  burn, 

The  broad  day  makes  their  glimmer  low ; 

The  great  sun  dazzles  as  we  turn, 

And  catch  his  rays  the  casement  through. 

Up,  Phillis  sweet,  the  morning  greet, 

And  in  the  dewy  garden  seek 

The  flowers  spread  with  white  and  red. 

To  match  the  glory  of  thy  cheek. 

Translation  of  Walter  Besant. 


I  A  U  D,  Louis  Marie  Julien  (“  Pierre 
Loti  ”)  ;  a  French  novelist;  born  at  Rochefort, 
January  14,  1850.  He  was  educated  at  home 
and  in  the  naval  school  at  Brest,  1867;  became  mid¬ 
shipman  in  1873,  and  lieutenant  in  1881,  and  made 
many  voyages  in  Oceanica  and  to  Japan,  Senegal,  etc. 
Participating  in  the  French  war  against  Anam  (south 
of  China)  in  1883,  his  truth-telling  letters  to  Figaro 
led  to  his  suspension  from  active  service ;  he  painted 


180  LOUIS  MARIE  JUL1EN  VIAUD 

“  too  black  ”  the  conduct  of  the  French  soldiers  in 
taking  the  forts  of  Hue.  He  is  a  wonderful  painter 
in  words,  making  a  picture  with  every  brief  stroke ; 
and  the  translator  of  some  of  his  works,  Clara  Bell, 
has  admirably  rendered  the  delicacy  of  his  touch,  color, 
and  sentiment.  From  Lands  of  Exile  (1887)  seems 
to  be  a  transcript  of  fact  and  scene  in  the  Tonquin 
cruise,  the  extract  here  given  being  perhaps  largely 
imaginative.  His  other  works  are  Aziyade  (1879); 
Rarahn ,  a  Polynesian  Idyl  (1880),  (reprinted  under 
the  title  of  Marriage  of  Loti)  ;  The  Romance  of  a 
Spain  (Algerian  soldier)  (1881)  ;  Flowers  of  Ennui; 
Pasquala  Ivanovitch;  Suleima  (1882);  My  Brother 
Yves  (1883)  ;  The  Three  Women  of  Kasbah  (1884)  ; 
The  Iceland  Fisherman ;  Madame  Chrysanthemum 
(1887);  Japoneries  of  Autumn  (1889);  Au  Maroe 
(1890);  Le  Roman  d’un  Enfant ,  an  autobiography 
(1890)  ;  Le  Livre  de  la  Pitie  et  de  la  Mort  (1891)  ; 
Fantome  d’  Orient,  a  sequel  to  Aziyade  (1892)  ;  Mate- 
lot  (1893).  Of  the  above  works,  From  Lands  of 
Exile ;  Rarahu;  The  Iceland  Fisherman ;  and  Madame 
Chrysanthemum  have  been  published  in  English. 

THE  MARBLE  MOUNTAIN  OF  ANAM. 

The  caverns  are  peopled  with  idols ;  the  entrails  of 
the  rocks  are  haunted;  spells  are  sleeping  in  these  deep 
recesses.  Every  incarnation  of  Buddha  is  here  —  and 
other,  older  images,  of  which  the  Bonzes  no  longer  know 
the  meaning.  The  gods  are  of  the  size  of  life;  some 
standing  up  resplendent'  with  gold,  their  eyes  staring  and 
fierce ;  others  crouched  and  asleep,  with  half-closed  eyes 
and  a  sempiternal  smile.  Some  dwell  alone,  unexpected 
and  startling  apparitions  in  dark  corners ;  others  —  numer¬ 
ous  company  —  sit  in  a  circle  under  a  marble  canopy  in 
the  green,  dim  light  of  a  cavern ;  their  attitudes  and  faces 
make  one’s  flesh  creep ;  they  seem  to  be  holding  council. 


LOUIS  MARIE  JULIEN  VIAUD 


181 


And  each  one  has  a  red  silk  cowl  over  his  head  —  in 
some  pulled  low  over  the  eyes  to  hide  their  faces,  all  but 
the  smile :  one  has  to  lift  it  to  see  them. 

The  gilding  and  Chinese  gaudiness  of  their  costumes 
have  preserved  a  sort  of  vividness  that  is  still  gorgeous ; 
nevertheless  they  are  very  old ;  their  silken  hoods  are 
all  worm-eaten ;  they  are  a  sort  of  wonderfully  pre¬ 
served  mummies.  The  walls  of  the  temple  are  of  the 
primeval  marble  rock,  hung  with  stalactites,  and  worn 
and  grooved  in  every  direction  by  the  trickling  water 
oozing  from  the  hill  above. 

And  lower  down,  quite  at  the  bottom,  in  the  nether¬ 
most  caverns,  dwell  other  gods  who  have  lost  every 
trace  of  color,  whose  names  are  forgotten,  who  have 
stalactite's  in  their  beards  and  masks  of  saltpetre.  These 
are  as  old  —  as  old  as  the  world ;  they  were  living  gods 
when  our  western  lands  were  still  frozen,  virgin  forests, 
the  home  of  the  cave-bear  and  the  giant  elk.  The  in¬ 
scriptions  that  surround  them  are  not  Chinese,  they 
were  traced  by  primeval  man  before  any  known  era ;  these 
bas-reliefs  seem  earlier  than  the  dark  ages  of  Angcor. 
They  are  antediluvian  gods,  surrounded  by  inscrutable 
things.  The  Bonzes  still  venerate  them,  and  their  cavern 
smells  of  incense. 

The  great  and  solemn  mystery  of  this  mountain  lies 
in  its  having  been  sacred  to  the  gods  and  full  of  wor¬ 
ship  ever  since  thinking  beings  have  peopled  the  earth. 
Who  were  they  who  made  those  idols  of  the  lowest 
caverns?  ...  We  came  up  from  the  subterranean 
regions,  and  when  we  reached  the  great  gate  once  more 
I  say  to  Lee-Loo:  “Your  great  pagoda  is  very  fine.” 

Lee-Loo  smiles.  “  The  great  pagoda  !  —  you  have  not 
seen  it.’ 

And  then  he  turns  to  the  left,  up  the  ascending  flight 
of  steps.  Marble  steps,  as  before,  carpeted  with  the 
pink  periwinkle,  overhung  by  lilies,  drooping  palms,  and 
luxuriant  rare  ferns,  the  rocks  close  in  on  it  more  and 
more ;  the  pink  creepers  grow  paler  and  the  plants  more 
slender  in  the  cooler  shade.  Tawny  ourangs  are  perched 
on  every  point  of  the  spires  that  tower  above  us,  watch¬ 
ing  with  excited  curiosity  and  moving  like  old  men. 


LOUIS  MARIE  I U LIEN  VIAUD 


182 

Another  gateway  in  a  new  style  rises  before  us,  and 
we  stop  to  look.  It  is  not  like  the  one  we  have  left  be¬ 
low  ;  it  is  differently  strange.  This  one  is  very  simple, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  explain  what  there  is  of  unknown 
and  unseen  in  this  very  simplicity;  it  is  the  quintes¬ 
sence  of  finality.  The  gateway  strikes  us  at  once  as 
the  gateway  to  Beyond ;  and  that  Beyond  is  Nirvana,  the 
peace  of  the  eternal  void.  There  is  a  decoration  of  vague 
scroll-work,  shapes  that  twine  and  cling  in  mystical  em¬ 
brace  without  beginning  or  end  —  a  painless,  joyless  eter¬ 
nity,  the  eternity  of  the  Buddhist  —  simply  annihilation 
and  rest  in  extinction. 

We  pass  this  gateway,  and  the  walls,  closing  in  by 
degrees,  at  last  meet  over  our  heads.  The  ourangs  have 
all  vanished  together,  hurrying  away  as  if  they  knew 
where  we  are  going  now,  and  intend  to  go  there,  too,  by 
a  way  known  to  them  alone,  and  to  be  there  before  us. 
Our  steps  ring  on  the  marble  blocks  with  sonorous  echo 
peculiar  to  underground  passages.  We  make  our  way 
under  a  low  vault  which  penetrates  the  heart  of  the 
mountain  in  the  blackness  of  darkness. 

Total  night  —  and  then  a  strange  light  dawns  before 
us  which  is  not  daylight :  a  green  glimmer,  as  green  as 
green  fire. 

“  The  pagoda !  ”  says  Lee-Loo. 

A  doorway  of  irregular  shape,  all  fringed  with  sta¬ 
lactites,  stands  open  before  us,  rising  to  about  half  the 
height  of  the  great  sanctuary  within.  It  is  the  very 
heart  of  the  mountain,  a  deep  and  lofty  cavern  with 
green  marble  walls.  The  distance  is  drowned,  as  it 
were,  in  a  transparent  twilight  looking  like  sea-water ; 
and  from  above,  through  a  shaft,  down  which  the  great 
monkeys  are  peeping  at  us,  comes  a  dazzling  beam  of 
light  of  indescribable  tint:  it  is  as  if  we  were  walking 
into  a  huge  emerald  pierced  by  a  moonbeam.  And  the 
shrines,  the  gods,  the  monsters  in  this  subterranean 
haze,  this  mysterious  and  resplendent  green  halo  of  glory, 
have  a  vivid  and  supernatural  splendor  of  hue. 

Slowly  we  go  down  the  steps  of  a  stair  guarded  by 
four  horrible  idiots  riding  on  nightmare  creatures.  Just 
facing  us  stand  two  little  temples,  all  striped  with  sky- 


LOUIS  MARIE  JU LIEN  VIAUD 


183 


blue  and  pink;  their  base  is  lost  in  shadow  and  they  look 
like  the  enchanted  dwellings  of  earth-gnomes.  In  a  fis¬ 
sure  in  the  rock  a  colossal  god  wearing  a  gold  mitre 
squats  smiling.  And  high  above  the  shrines  and  images, 
the  marble  vault  shuts  it  all  in,  like  a  stupendous  and 
crushing  curtain  in  a  thousand  green  folds. 

The  guardian  gods  of  the  stairs  glare  at  us  with  a  leer 
in  their  great  perfidious,  greedy  eyes,  grinning  from  ear 
to  ear  with  bogie  laughter.  They  look  as  if  they  were 
shrinking  closer  to  the  wall  to  make  way  for  us,  holding 
in  their  steeds,  which  set  their  teeth  like  tigers.  And 
far  up,  perched  on  the  great  dome  round  the  opening 
through  which  the  green  rays  fall,  the  ourangs  are  sitting, 
their  legs  and  tails  hanging  over  among  the  garlands  of 
creepers,  watching  to  see  if  we  shall  venture  in. 

Down  we  go  —  doubtfully,  with  involuntary  slowness, 
under  the  influence  of  an  unfamiliar  and  indescribable 
religious  awe.  As  we  reach  the  lowest  step,  there  is  a 
subterranean  chill ;  we  speak  and  rouse  hollow  echoes 
that  transform  our  voices. 

The  floor  of  the  cave  is  of  very  fine  sand  covered  with 
the  dung  of  bats,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange,  musky 
smell ;  it  is  dented  all  over  with  the  print  left  by  monkeys, 
like  that  of  little  hands.  Here  and  there  stand  ancient 
marble  vases,  and  altars  for  Buddhist  rites. 

Then  there  are  numbers  of  what  look  like  very  long, 
very  enormous  brown  snakes  hanging  from  the  top  of 
the  vault  down  to  the  floor  —  or  they  may  be  cables,  huge 
cables  shining  like  bronze,  stretched  from  top  to  bottom 
of  this  nave.  They  are  roots  of  creepers,  thousands  of 
years  old  perhaps,  larger  than  any  known  growth.  The 
ourangs,  growing  bolder,  seem  to  be  about  to  descend 
by  these  to  inspect  us  more  closely,  for  they  are  the 
familiars  of  the  sanctuary. 

Presently  we  see  a  group  of  four  Bonzes  in  violet  robes 
who  have  followed  us  and  are  now  standing  on  the  top 
steps  of  the  gap  by  which  we  came.  They  pause  at  the 
entrance  of  the  underground  passage  in  the  sea-green 
twilight,  looking  tiny  among  the  gods  and  monsters.  And 
then,  coming  toward  us,  they  slowly  descend  —  down, 
down,  into  the  greener  radiance. 


184 


PETER  VIDAL 


It  was  like  a  scene  of  another  world,  a  ritual  of  ad¬ 
mission  of  departed  spirits  into  the  Buddhist  heaven.  — 
From  Lands  of  Exile;  translation  of  Clara  Bell. 


^prfi^IDAL,  Peter,  a  Provengal  troubadour;  born 
at  Toulouse  about  1165;  date  of  his  death 
unknown.  He  was  the  son  of  a  rich  furrier, 
who  was  of  a  poetic  turn.  His  career  was  so  filled 
with  fantastic  adventures  as  to  bring  his  sanity  into 
serious  doubt ;  indeed,  he  seems  all  his  life  to  have 
been  mad  in  everything  but  his  poetry.  He  wandered 
as  a  vagrant  from  one  Court  to  another  —  those  of 
Alfonso  II.  of  Aragon ;  Viscount  Barral  of  Marseilles ; 
Count  Raymond  VI.  of  Toulouse ;  the  Marquis  Boni¬ 
face  II.  of  Montferrat ;  King  Emmerich  of  Hungary ; 
and  Count  Richard  of  Poitiers,  afterward  King  of 
England.  At  the  Court  of  the  Viscount  Barral,  he 
entered  one  morning  the  chamber  of  the  Countess 
Adalasia,  and  awoke  her  with  a  kiss ;  and  for  this 
indiscretion  he  was  obliged  to  leave.  In  1190,  having 
joined  the  crusade  of  King  Richard,  he  married  a 
Greek  lady ;  and  imagining  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  the  Greek  Emperor  at  Constantinople,  he  assumed 
the  arms  of  the  Emperor  himself,  and  had  all  the  royal 
insignia  borne  before  him.  When  the  news  of  the 
capture  of  Byzantium  was  brought  to  him,  he  hurried 
to  the  Golden  Horn  in  his  usual  headlong  way,  mean¬ 
ing  to  prefer  his  claims  to  the  vacant  throne.  Whether 
it  was  during  the  voyage  that  he  died,  or  directly  after 
landing,  cannot  be  ascertained. 


PETER  VIDAL 


185 


A  PRANDIAL  IMPROVISATION. 

I  hate  who  gives  a  scanty  feast; 

The  mind  where  envy  rankles ; 

A  brawling  monk;  a  smirking  priest; 

And  the  maid  who  shows  her  ankles. 

The  fool  who  dotes  upon  his  wife; 

The  churl  whose  wine’s  diluted ; 

The  pessimist,  with  joy  at  strife;  — 

May  these  three  be  well  hooted ! 

Deep  shame  befall  who  wears  a  sword 
He  never  draws  in  fight ; 

And  be  the  huckster’s  brat  abhorred 
Who  apes  the  airs  of  knight. 

Let  scorn  be  hers  who  weds  her  groom; 

And  his  who  weds  his  harlot ; 

And  may  the  gibbet  be  the  doom 
Of  rogues  that  strut  in  scarlet. 

—  Sung  to  the  guitar  at  the  Countess  Adalasia’s 
castle. 


TO  ADALASIA. 

Thy  breeze  is  blowing  on  my  cheeks, 
O  land  of  lyre  and  lance ; 

In  every  gush  to  me  it  speaks 
Of  Her  I  love,  and  France. 

’Twas  there  I  sang,  and  won  renown; 

’Twas  there  my  heart  I  gave 
Unto  the  dame  whose  cruel  frown 
Me  forth  an  exile  drave. 

How  pleasant  every  breeze  that  leaves 
The  land  of  lyre  and  lance  — 

How  welcome  every  voice  that  weaves 
A  Tale  of  Her  and  France. 


ALFRED  VICTOR  DE  VIGNY 


1 86 

Why,  for  the  deed  it  bade  me  dare, 

Could  not  my  love  atone  ? 

And  wherefore  does  a  form  so  fair 
So  stern  a  spirit  own  ? 

Far  better  feel  a  Moslem  blade, 

Than  thus  despairing  pine; 

So  on  my  breast  the  cross  I’ll  braid, 

And  hie  to  Palestine. 

Seek,  song,  with  this  my  last  farewell. 

The  land  of  lyre  and  lance; 

Nor  to  my  lady  fail  to  tell, 

I  die  for  Her  and  France. 

—  Written  upon  joining  the  Crusade  of  Richard  /. 

ADALASIA  RECONCILED. 

Visions  of  beauty  round  me  throng  — 

Each  thought’s  a  flower,  each  breath  a  song. 

With  hope  my  every  fibre  glows, 

My  very  blood  in  music  flows. 

Her  mantle  Joy  has  round  me  cast, 

My  lady-love  relents  at  last. 

No  grief  has  earth  like  that  we  prove 

When  swept  in  wrath  from  those  we  love ; 

Nor  does  a  bliss  for  mortals  smile 

Like  that  when  fond  hearts  reconcile. 

I  feel  the  bliss ;  I’ve  felt  the  pain ; 

Nor  shall  I  tempt  the  last  again. 

—  Written  when  the  Countess  u  sent  him  a  pres¬ 
ent  of  the  kiss  he  stole.” 


SIGNY,  Alfred  Victor,  Comte  de,  a  French 
poet  and  novelist;  born  at  Loches,  Touraine, 
March  28,  1799;  died  at  Paris,  September  17, 
1863.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  joined  the  regiment 
of  musketeers  of  Louis  XVIII.,  and  accompanied  the 


ALFRED  VICTOR  DE  VIGNY 


187 


King  to  Ghent  during  the  Hundred  Days.  In  1823 
he  entered  the  line  in  order  to  be  able  to  accompany 
the  French  expedition  to  Spain.  His  regiment,  how¬ 
ever,  was  detained  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  the  time  he 
had  hoped  to  give  to  action  he  spent  in  writing  poetry, 
In  1826  he  married  Miss  Lydia  Bunbury,  an  English¬ 
woman  of  fortune,  and  two  years  later  he  retired  from 
the  army  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to  literature. 
Already,  in  1815  and  1822,  respectively,  he  had  pub¬ 
lished  two  volumes  of  Pocmes,  which  were  inspired 
by  his  classical  and  Biblical  studies.  His  Elio  a ,  on  la 
Soeur  des  Anges,  appeared  in  1824.  It  is  the  history 
of  a  fallen  seraph.  After  he  had  definitely  adopted 
literature  as  his  pursuit  in  life  he  became  one  of  the 
leaders  of  the  Romantic  movement,  and  his  Po ernes, 
Antiques  et  Modernes,  issued  1826  and  1837,  were 
hailed  as  among  the  finest  productions  of  the  new 
school.  In  1826  appeared  his  great  historical  romance 
entitled  Cinq-Mars.  The  success  of  this  romantic  il¬ 
lustration  of  the  times  of  Richelieu  encouraged  him 
to  produce  his  Stello,  or  the  Blue-Devils  (1832),  which 
defined  the  poet’s  position  in  society,  and  Military 
Servitude  and  Greatness  (1835),  the  materials  of 
which  he  derived  from  the  history  of  the  republic  and 
the  empire.  As  a  dramatic  writer  he  also  achieved 
considerable  success  by  his  Chatterton  (1835),  an  epi¬ 
sode  taken  from  Stello.  He  also  wrote  La  Marechale 
d’Ancre,  and  several  other  historical  dramas.  He  was 
made  a  member  of  the  French  Academy  in  1845.  It 
was  not  until  after  Count  de  Vigny’s  death  that  his 
Destinees:  Poemes  Philosophiques ,  were  given  to  the 
world.  An  edition  of  his  CEuvres  Completes  appeared 
in  1883. 


i88 


ALFRED  VICTOR  DE  VIGNY 


COME,  MAIDEN,  WITH  ME  O’ER  THE  WATERS. 

Come,  maiden,  come  with  me  to  glide 
All  alone  o’er  the  sea; 

My  lovely  and  portionless  bride, 

I  only  with  thee. 

My  bark  dances  light  on  the  waters, 

Like  a  bird  on  the  wing; 

See  —  see  its  bright  flag  and  its  sail ; 

Think  not  that  ’tis  tiny  and  frail. 

For  I  am  its  king. 

Let  the  waters  be  stormy  or  still, 

We  shall  not  sink  beneath ; 

Let  the  winds  rage  around  at  their  will, 

And  threaten  with  death. 

The  winds  and  the  waves  I  defy, 

No  longer,  then,  wait: 

No  wall  to  imprison  thee  now: 

Not  one  to  say  nay  to  thy  vow  — 

None  with  us  but  Fate. 

The  land?  —  it  was  made  for  the  slave, 

And  for  toil,  day  and  night; 

But  the  sea,  for  the  free  and  the  brave 
Lies  boundless  and  bright. 

Each  wave  has  a  secret  of  pleasure ; 

It  whispers  to  me, 

“Wilt  be  happy?  love  ever,  but  only 

Fear  not  to  be  poor  and  be  lonely  — 

Dare,  dare  to  be  free !  ” 

— From  Poemes;  translation  of  Walter  Besant. 

THE  HORN. 

I  love,  through  the  deep  woods  at  close  of  day, 

To  hear  the  horn  sounding  the  stag  at  bay, 

Or  hunter’s  farewell  note,  which  echo  wakes, 

And  the  north  wind  through  all  the  forest  takes. 


ALFRED  VICTOR  DE  VIGNY 


189 


How  oft  have  I  a  midnight  vigil  kept, 

And  smiled  to  hear  it  —  yet,  more  often  wept! 

It  seemed  the  sound  prophetic,  which,  of  old, 

The  coming  death  of  paladins  foretold. 

The  horses  halt  upon  the  mountain-brow. 
Foam-whitened ;  ’neath  their  feet  is  Roncevaux, 

By  day’s  last  dying  flame  scarce  colored  o’er; 

The  far  horizon  shows  the  flying  Moor. 

“  Seest  thou  naught,  Turpin,  in  the  torrent-bed?  ” 

“  I  see  two  knights ;  one  dying  and  one  dead, 

Both  crushed  ’neath  a  black  rock’s  vast  fragment  lie; 
The  strongest  holds  a  horn  of  ivory. 

His  soul’s  last  breath  twice  called  us  to  his  aid !  ” 

“  God !  how  the  horn  wails  through  the  forest  glade.” 

LEGENDS  OF  OLD.  • 

Ah !  sweet  it  is,  when  all  the  boughs  are  black 
And  the  deep  snow  lies  heavy  on  the  ground, 
The  legends  of  past  days  to  summon  back 
And  bid  old  stories  once  again  go  round. 

To  listen,  while  without  the  poplar  only 
Lifts  up  long  arms  against  a  wintry  sky, 

And  on  the  tree  the  snow-robed  raven  lonely 

Stands  balanced  like  the  vane  that  hangs  on  high. 

Ah !  sweet  it  is,  old  stories  to  recall, 

The  legends  of  that  old  world  passed  away : 

While  the  white  snow  enwraps  and  covers  all, 

And  trees  hang  out  black  branches  to  the  day. 

—  From  Poemes;  translation  in  Temple  Bar. 


190 


PAS  QUALE  VILLARI 


>7-yi^ILLARI,  Pasquale,  an  Italian  historian;  born 
at  Naples,  October  3,  1827.  He  was  educated 
under  Basilo  Piroti  and  de  Sanctis.  He 
studied  law  and  began  to  practice  that  profession ;  but 
•in  1847  he  was  imprisoned  for  his  share  in  the  revolu¬ 
tion  of  that  year.  Upon  his  release  he  went  to  Flor¬ 
ence,  where,  in  very  needy  circumstances,  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  history,  supporting  himself  by 
giving  private  lessons.  In  1859  he  published  his 
Storia  di  Girolamo  Savonarola,  and  was  immediately 
made  Professor  of  History  at  the  University  of  Pisa. 
His  work  on  Savonarola  —  which  has  been  translated 
into  English  by  his  wife  —  was  followed  by  La  Civiltd 
Latina  e  Germanica  (1861)  ;  Leggendc  che  Illustrano 
la  Divina  Commedia  (1865),  and  many  critical,  educa¬ 
tional,  and  poetical  treatises.  His  political  pamphlet 
Di  Chi  e  la  Colpa — “Whose  is  the  Fault?” — stirred 
the  nation  to  its  very  depths ;  and  the  same  year,  1866. 
Villari  was  called  to  the  chair  of  History  at  the  Insti- 
tute  of  Higher  Studies  in  Florence.  He  became  Gen¬ 
eral  Secretary  of  Public  Instruction  in  1869,  Senator  in 
1884,  and  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  in  1891.  His 
Niccolo  Mackiavelli  —  translated  by  his  wife  —  was 
published  in  1877;  and  in  1893  he  issued  his  Storia  de 
Firenze — (Florentine  History) — which  has  been  also 
rendered  into  English  by  his  wife. 

MACHIAVELLI  IN  EARLY  LIFE. 

Of  middle  height,  slender  figure,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
dark  hair,  rather  a  small  head,  a  slightly  aquiline  nose, 
a  tightly  closed  mouth :  all  about  him  bore  the  impress 
of  a  very  acute  observer  and  thinker,  but  not  that  of 
one  able  to  wield  much  influence  over  others.  He  could 


PAS  QUALE  V1LLARI 


igi 

not  easily  rid  himself  of  the  sarcastic  expression  con¬ 
tinually  playing  round  his  mouth  and  flashing  from 
his  eyes,  which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  cold  and  impassi¬ 
ble  calculator ;  while  nevertheless  he  was  frequently 
ruled  by  his  powerful  imagination ;  sometimes  suddenly 
led  away  by  it  to  an  extent  befitting  the  most  fantastic 
of  visionaries.  He  applied  himself  to  the  faithful  ser¬ 
vice  of  the  Republic,  with  all  the  ardor  of  an  ancient 
Republican,  inspired  by  reminiscences  of  Rome,  pagan 
and  republican.  His  leisure  was  devoted  to  reading, 
conversation,  and  the  usual  pleasures  of  life.  Being  of 
a  cheerful  temper,  he  was  on  good  terms  with  his  col¬ 
leagues  in  the  Chancery,  and  if  intimate  with  his  supe¬ 
rior,  Marcello  Virgilio,  was  far  more  so  with  Biagio 
Buonaccorsi,  who,  although  in  an  inferior  position  and 
but  a  mediocre  scholar,  was  a  worthy  man  and  a  firm 
friend.  He  it  was  who,  when  Machiavelli  was  at  a  dis¬ 
tance,  used  to  write  him  long  and  affectionate  letters  in 
a  tone  of  real  friendship,  and  from  these  we  learn  that 
the  first  secretary  of  the  Ten  was  much  given  to  gay 
living,  and  to  various  irregular  love  affairs,  of  which 
the  two  wrote  to  each  other  in  a  style  that  is  far  from 
edifying.  —  From  Niccolo  Machiavelli ;  translation  of 
Linda  Villari. 


CAPTURE  OF  SAVONAROLA. 

Savonarola’s  adherents  had  either  disappeared  or  were 
in  hiding;  all  Florence  now  seemed  against  him. 

The  morning  of  the  8th  of  April,  Palm  Sunday,  1498, 
passed  quietly,  but  it  was  easy  for  an  observant  eye  to 
discern  that  this  tranquillity  was  only  the  sullen  calm  that 
precedes  a  storm,  and  that  it  was  a  marvel  no  startling 
event  had  yet  occurred.  Savonarola  preached  St.  Mark’s, 
but  his  sermon  was  very  short  and  sad :  he  offered  his 
body  as  a  sacrifice  to  God,  and  declared  his  readiness  to 
face  death  for  the  good  of  his  flock.  Mournfully,  but  with 
much  composure,  he  took  leave  of  his  people ;  and  in  giv¬ 
ing  them  his  benediction,  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was 
addressing  them  for  the  last  time.  The  friar’s  adherents 
then  hurried  to  their  homes  to  procure  arms,  while  a  por- 


192 


PAS  QUALE  V1LLAR1 


tion  of  their  adversaries  held  the  corners  of  the  streets, 
and  all  the  rest  marched  through  the  city,  crying  “To 
St.  Mark’s,  to  St.  Mark’s,  fire  in  hand  !  ”  They  assembled 
on  the  piazza  of  the  Signory;  and  when  their  numbers 
had  sufficiently  increased,  moved  in  the  direction  of  the 
convent,  brandishing  their  weapons,  and  uttering  fierce 
cries.  On  the  way  they  caught  sight  of  a  certain  man, 
named  Pecori,  who  was  quietly  walking  to  the  church  of  the 
Santissima  Annunziata,  singing  psalms  as  he  went;  and 
immediately  some  of  them  rushed  after  him,  crying,  “  Does 
the  hypocrite  still  dare  to  memble  !  ”  And  overtaking  him 
on  the  steps  of  the  Innocenti,  they  slew  him  on  the  spot. 
A  poor  spectacles-maker,  hearing  the  great  noise  in  the 
street,  came  out  with  his  slippers  in  his  hand;  and  while 
trying  to  persuade  the  people  to  be  quiet,  was  killed  by  a 
sword-thrust  in  his  head.  Others  shared  the  same  fate; 
and  in  this  way,  infuriated  by  the  taste  of  blood,  the  mob 
poured  into  the  square  of  St.  Mark.  Finding  the  church 
thronged  with  the  people  who  had  attended  vespers,  and 
were  still  engaged  in  prayer,  they  hurled  a  dense  shower 
of  stones  through  the  door ;  whereat  a  general  panic  en¬ 
sued,  the  women  shrieked  loudly,  and  all  took  to  flight. 
In  a  moment  the  church  was  emptied ;  its  doors,  as  well 
as  those  of  the  convent  were  locked  and  barred ;  and  no 
one  remained  within  save  the  citizens  who  were  bent  on 
defending  St.  Mark’s. 

Although  barely  thirty  in  number,  these  comprised  some 
of  the  most  devoted  of  Savonarola’s  adherents ;  the  men 
who  had  escorted  him  to  the  pulpit,  and  were  ever  pre¬ 
pared  to  risk  their  life  in  his  service.  For  some  days 
past  they  had  known  that  the  convent  was  in  danger : 
and  accordingly  eight  or  ten  of  them  had  always  come  to 
guard  it  by  night.  Without  the  knowledge  of  Savonarola 
or  Fra  Domenico,  whom  they  knew  to  be  averse  to  all 
deeds  of  violence,  they  had,  by  the  suggestion  of  Fra 
Silvestro  and  Fra  Francesco  de’  Medici,  secretly  deposited 
a  store  of  arms  in  a  cell  beneath  the  cloister.  Here  were 
some  twelve  breastplates  and  as  many  helmets ;  eighteen 
halberds,  five  or  six  crossbows,  shields  of  different  kinds, 
four  or  five  harquebusses,  a  barrel  of  powder,  and  leaden 
bullets,  and  even,  as  it  would  seem,  two  small  mortars. 


PAS  QUALE  VILLARI 


193 


Francesco  Davanzati,  who  had  furnished  almost  all  these 
weapons  and  was  then  in  the  convent,  brought  out  and 
distributed  them  to  those  best  able  to  use  them.  Assisted 
by  Baldo  Xnghimlami,  he  directed  the  defence  for  some 
time ;  placing  guards  at  the  weakest  points,  and  giving 
the  necessary  orders.  About  sixteen  of  the  friars  took 
arms,  and  foremost  among  them  were  Fra  Luca,  son  of 
Andrea  della  Robbia,  and  our  Fra  Benetto.  It  was  a 
strange  sight  to  see  some  of  these  men,  with  breastplates 
over  their  Dominican  robes  and  helmets  on  their  heads, 
brandishing  enormous  halberds,  and  speeding  through  the 
cloister  with  shouts  of  “  Viva  Cristo  !  ”  to  call  their  com¬ 
panions  to  arms. 

Savonarola  was  deeply  grieved  by  this,  and  Fra  Do¬ 
menico  went  about  imploring  all  to  cast  aside  their  weap¬ 
ons.  “  They  must  not  stain  their  hands  in  blood ;  they 
must  not  disobey  the  precepts  of  the  gospel,  nor  their 
superior’s  commands.”  So  he  cried,  but  all  was  in  vain; 
for  at  that  moment  the  furious  yells  outside  rose  to  a 
deafening  pitch,  and  more  determined  attacks  were  made 
on  the  gates.  It  was  then  that  Savonarola  resolved  to  end 
the  fruitless  and  painful  struggle  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  safety;  so,  assuming  his  priest’s  vestments,  and  tak¬ 
ing  a  cross  in  his  hand,  he  said  to  his  companions,  “  Suf¬ 
fer  me  to  go  forth,  since  through  me  orta  est  haec  tem- 
pestas”  (this  storm  has  risen)  :  and  wished  to  surrender 
himself  to  his  enemies  at  once.  But  he  was  met  by 
universal  cries  of  despair;  friars  and  paymen  pressed 
round  him  with  tears  and  supplications.  “  No !  do  not 
leave  us !  you  will  be  torn  to  pieces ;  and  what  would 
become  of  us  without  you?”  When  he  saw  his  most 
trusted  friends  barring  the  way  before  him,  he  turned 
about  and  bade  all  follow  him  to  the  church.  First  of 
all  he  carried  the  Host  in  procession  through  the  cloisters ; 
then  led  the  way  to  the  choir,  and  reminded  them  that 
prayer  was  the  only  weapon  to  be  employed  by  ministers 
of  religion :  whereupon  all  fell  on  their  knees  before  the 
consecrated  wafer,  and  intoned  the  chant  — “  Salvum  fac 
populum  tuum,  Domine  ”  (O  Lord,  save  thy  people). 
Some  had  rested  their  weapons  against  the  wall,  others 


Vol.  XXIII.— 13 


194 


PASQUALE  VILLAR1 


still  grasped  them,  and  only  a  few  remained  on  guard  at 
the  main  entrances. 

It  was  now  about  the  twenty-second  hour  (i.e.,  two 
hours  before  sundown)  ;  the  throng  on  the  Piazza  had 
increased,  the  assailants  were  encouraged  by  meeting  with 
no  resistance,  and  the  Signory’s  guards  were  coming  to 
their  aid.  At  this  moment  the  mace-bearers  appeared, 
to  proclaim  the  Signory’s  decree  that  all  in  the  convent 
were  to  lay  down  their  arms;  and  that  Savonarola  was 
sentenced  to  exile,  and  ordered  to  quit  the  Florentine 
territory  within  twelve  hours’  time.  Most  of  those  who 
heard  this  announcement  regarded  it  as  a  device  of  the 
enemy.  It  was  difficult  to  credit  that  the  Signory  could 
order  the  attacked,  who  were  making  scarcely  any  defence, 
to  lay  down  their  arms,  while  the  assailants,  who  were 
the  sole  authors  of  the  disturbable,  and  in  far  greater 
numbers,  were  not  only  left  unmolested,  but  supplied  with 
reinforcements !  Nevertheless,  the  proclamation  decided 
several  to  obtain  safe-conducts  and  hurry  away. 

Meanwhile  night  was  falling,  and  the  siege  of  the  con¬ 
vent  was  being  carried  on  with  desperate  ferocity.  Some 
fired  the  gates ;  while  others  had  successfully  scaled  the 
walls  on  the  Sapienza  side,  and  made  their  way  into  the 
cloisters.  After  sacking  the  infirmary  and  the  cells,  they 
all  penetrated  to  the  sacristy,  sword  in  hand,  and  broke 
upon  the  door  leading  to  the  choir.  When  the  friars,  who 
were  kneeling  there  in  prayer,  found  themselves  thus  sud¬ 
denly  attacked,  they  were  naturally  stirred  to  self-defence. 
.Seizing  the  burning  torches,  and  crucifixes  of  metal  and 
wood,  they  labored  their  assailants  with  so  much  energy 
that  the  latter  fled  in  dismay,  believing  for  a  moment  that 
a  band  of  angels  had  come  to  the  defence  of  the  convent. 

Then  the  other  monks,  who  had  laid  down  their  arms 
at  Savonarola’s  behest,  again  resumed  the  defence ;  and 
there  was  more  skirmishing  in  the  cloisters  and  corridors. 
At’  the  same  time  the  great  bell  of  the  convent,  called  the 
Piagnona,  tolled  forth  the  alarm ;  both  besiegers  and  be¬ 
sieged  fought  with  great  fury;  all  was  clamor  and  confu¬ 
sion,  cries  of  despair,  and  clashing  of  steel.  This  was 
the  moment  when  Baldo  Inghirlami  and  Francesco  Da- 
vanzati  dealt  such  vigorous  blows  and  that  Fra  Luca 


PAS  QUALE  VILLARI 


195 


* 


d’ Andrea  della  Robbia  chased  the  foes  through  the  clois¬ 
ters,  sword  in  hard.  Fra  Benedetto  and  a  few  others 
mounted  on  the  roof,  and  repeatedly  drove  back  the 
enemy  with  a  furious  hail  of  stones  and  tiles.  Several 
of  the  monks  fired  their  muskets  with  good  effect  inside 
the  church;  and  a  certain  Fra  Enrico,  a  young,  fair-haired, 
handsome  German,  particularly  distinguished  himself  by 
his  prowess.  At  the  first  beginning  of  the  struggle  he 
had  courageously  sallied  out  into  the  midst  of  the  mob, 
and  possessed  himself  of  the  weapon  he  wielded  so  va¬ 
liantly;  accompanying  each  stroke  with  the  cry,  “  Salvum 
fac  populum.tuum,  Domine.” 

At  this  juncture  the  victory  was  decidedly  with  St. 
Mark’s,  and  its  defenders  were  exulting  in  this  success, 
when  a  fresh  edict  of  the  Signory  was  proclaimed,  declar¬ 
ing  all  rebels  who  did  not  forsake  the  convent  within  an 
hour.  Thereupon  several  more  demanded  safe-conducts 
and  departed,  thus  further  diminishing  the  too  scanty 
garrison.  And  there  being  no  longer  any  doubt  as  to  the 
Signory’s  intention  of  crushing  St.  Mark’s,  even  the  rem¬ 
nant  of  the  defenders  lost  hope  and  courage,  and  were 
already  beginning  to  give  way.  Savonarola  and  many 
of  his  brethren  still  remained  in  the  choir,  offering  up 
prayers,  which  were  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by  the 
cries  of  the  injured  or  the  piteous  wail  of  the  dying. 
Among  the  latter  was  a  youth  of  the  Panciatichi  House, 
who  was  borne,  fatally  wounded,  to  the  steps  of  the  high 
altar;  and  there,  amid  volleys  of  harquebuss  shots,  re¬ 
ceived  the  communion  from  Fra  Domenico,  and  joyfully 
drew  his  last  breath  in  the  friar’s  arms,  after  kissing  the 
crucifix  and  exclaiming,  “  Ecce  quam  bonum  et  quam 
jucundum  habitare  fratres  in  unum  !  ”  (Behold  how  good 
and  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in 
unity !) 

Night  had  now  come;  and  the  monks,  exhausted  with 
hunger  and  agitation,  devoured  some  dry  figs  one  of  the 
companions  had  brought.  Suddenly  the  defence  was  re¬ 
sumed;  louder  cries  were  heard,  and  fresh  volleys  of  shot. 
In  the  pulpit  from  which  Savonarola  had  so  frequently 
inculcated  the  doctrine  of  peace,  Fra  Enrico,  the  German, 
had  now  taken  his  stand  and  was  firing  his  harquebuss 


196 


PASQUALE  VILLARI 


with  fatal  effect.  The  smoke  became  so  dense  that  it  was 
necessary  to  break  the  windows  in  order  to  escape  suffo¬ 
cation ;  and  thereupon  long  tongues  of  flame  poured  into 
the  church  from  the  burning  doors.  The  German  and 
another  defender  retreated  into  the  choir,  and  clambering 
upon  the  high  altar,  planted  their  harquebusses  beside 
the  great  crucifix,  and  continued  their  fire. 

Savonarola  was  overwhelmed  with  grief  by  this  waste 
of  life  in  his  cause,  but  was  powerless  to  prevent  it.  No 
attention  being  paid  to  his  protests,  he  again  raised  the 
Host  and  commanded  his  friars  to  follow  him.  Trav¬ 
ersing  the  dormitory,  he  had  conducted  nearly  all  to  the 
Greek  library,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Fra  Benedetto 
rushing  down  stairs,  maddened  with  fury  and  fully  armed, 
to  confront  the  assailants  at  close  quarters.  Laying  his 
hand  on  his  disciple’s  shoulder,  he  gave  him  a  severe 
glance,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  earnest  reproof,  “  Fra  Bene¬ 
detto,  throw  down  those  weapons  and  take  up  the  cross : 
I  never  intended  my  brethren  to  shed  blood.”  And  the 
monk  humbled  himself  at  his  master’s  feet,  laid  aside  his 
arms,  and  followed  him  to  the  library  with  the  rest. 

A  final  and  still  more  threatening  decree  was  now  issued 
by  the  Signory,  against  all  who  continued  to  resist;  com¬ 
manding  Savonarola,  Fra  Domenico,  and  Fra  Silvestro 
to  present  themselves  at  the  palace  without  delay,  and 
giving  their  word  that  no  harm  should  be  offered  them. 
Fra  Domenico  insisted  on  seeing  the  order  in  writing; 
and  the  heralds,  not  having  it  with  them,  went  back  to 
fetch  it.  Meanwhile  Savonarola  had  deposited  the  sacra¬ 
ment  in  the  hall  of  the  library  beneath  the  noble  arches 
of  Michelozzi’s  vault';  and  collecting  the  friars  around 
him,  addressed  them  for  the  last  time  in  these  memo¬ 
rable  words :  “  My  beloved  children,  in  the  presence  of 

God,  in  the  presence  of  the  consecrated  wafer,  with  our 
enemies  already  in  the  convent,  I  confirm  the  truth  of 
my  doctrines.  All  that  I  have  said  hath  come  to  me  from 
God,  and  He  is  my  witness  in  Heaven  that  I  speak  no  lie. 
I  had  not  foreseen  all  that  the  city  would  so  quickly  turn 
against  me ;  nevertheless,  may  the  Lord’s  will  be  done. 
My  last  exhortation  to  ye  is  this :  let  faith,  prayer,  and 
patience  be  your  weapons.  I  leave  ye  with  anguish  and 


PAS  QUALE  VILLAR1 


19; 


grief,  to  give  myself  into  my  enemies’  hands.  I  know 
not'  whether  they  will  take  my  life ;  but  certain  am  I  that, 
once  dead,  I  shall  be  able  to  succor  ye  in  Heaven  far 
better  than  it  hath  been  granted  me  to  help  ye  on  earth. 
Take  comfort,  embrace  the  cross,  and  by  it  shall  ye  find 
the  way  of  salvation.” 

The  invaders  were  now  masters  of  almost  the  whole 
of  the  convent;  and  Gioacchino  della  Vecchia,  captain  of 
the  palace  guard,  threatened  to  knock  down  the  walls  with 
his  guns  unless  the  orders  of  the  Signory  were  obeyed. 
Fra  Malatesta  Sacramoro,  the  very  man  who  a  few  days 
before  had  offered  to  walk  through  the  fire,  now  played 
the  part  of  Judas.  He  treated  with  the  Compagnacci, 
and  persuaded  them  to  present  a  written  order,  for  which 
they  sent  an  urgent  request  to  the  Signory;  while  Savon¬ 
arola  again  confessed  to  Fra  Domenico,  and  took  the 
sacrament  from  his  hands,  in  preparation  for  their  com¬ 
mon  surrender.  As  for  their  companion.  Fra  Silvestro, 
he  had  hidden  himself,  and  in  the  confusion  was  nowhere 
to  be  found. 

Just  then  a  singular  incident  occurred.  One  of  Savon¬ 
arola’s  disciples  —  a  certain  Girolamo  Gini,  who  had  long 
yearned  to  assume  the  Dominican  robe  —  had  come  to 
vespers  that  day,  and  from  the  beginning  of  the  riot  en¬ 
ergetically  helped  in  the  defence  of  the  convent.  When 
Savonarola  ordered  all  to  lay  down  their  arms,  this  worthy 
artisan  instantly  obeyed;  but  nevertheless  could  not  re¬ 
frain  from  rushing  through  the  cloisters  and  showing 
himself  to  the  assailants, —  in  his  desire,  as  he  confessed 
at  his  examination,  to  face  death  for  the  love  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Having  been  wounded,  he  now  appeared  in  the 
Greek  library,  with  blood  streaming  from  his  head;  and 
kneeling  at  his  master’s  feet  humbly  prayed  to  be  invested 
with  the  habit.  And  his  request  was  granted  on  the  spot. 

Savonarola  was  urged  by  some  of  his  friends  to  consent 
to  be  lowered  from  the  walls  and  seek  safety  in  flight ; 
since,  if  he  once  set  foot  in  the  palace,  there  was  little 
chance  of  his  ever  leaving  it  alive.  He  hesitated,  and 
seemed  on  the  point  of  adopting  this  sole  means  of  escape ; 
when  Fra  Malatesta  turned  on  him  and  said,  “  Should  not 
the  shepherd  lay  down  his  life  for  his  lambs?”  These 


ABEL  FRANCOIS  VILLEMAIN 


198 

words  appeared  to  touch  him  deeply;  and  he  accordingly 
made  no  reply,  but  after  kissing  his  brethren  and  folding 
them  to  his  heart, —  this  very  Malatesta  first  of  all, —  he 
deliberately  gave  himself  up,  together  with  his  trusty  and 
inseparable  Fra  Domenico,  into  the  hands  of  the  mace- 
bearers  who  had  returned  from  the  Signory  at  that  in¬ 
stant. —  Storia  di  Girolamo  Savonarola. 


^sg^ILLEMAIN,  Abel  Franqois,  a  French  critic 
W&D  and  orator;  born  at  Paris,  June  11,  1790;  died 
there,  May  8,  1870.  He  was  educated  at  the 
Imperial  Lyceum  and  was  a  pupil  in  rhetoric  of  Luce 
de  Lancival.  M.  de  Fontanes  appointed  him  professor 
of  rhetoric  in  the  Lycee  Charlemagne  about  1810.  In 
1812  he  gained  a  prize  offered  by  the  Institute  for  his 
Eloge  de  Montaigne,  in  which  he  displayed  great 
power  of  generalization  and  an  excellent  gift  of  har¬ 
monious  language.  In  1814  he  produced  a  Discourse 
on  the  Advantages  and  Inconveniences  of  Criticism, 
which  was  crowned  by  the  French  Academy.  In  1816 
he  became  Professor  of  French  eloquence  at  the  Uni¬ 
versity  of  Paris,  and  wrote  an  Eloge  de  Montesquieu. 
He  published  History  of  Cromwell  (1819);  Lectures 
on  French  Literature  (1828-38),  which  is  considered 
his  principal  work ;  Discours  et  Melanges  Litteraires 
(1823),  and  Studies  of  Ancient  and  Foreign  Literature 
(1846).  Blending  in  his  lectures  literary  analysis, 
biography,  spicy  anecdotes,  ingenious  judgments  in 
detail  and  profound  generalities,  he  gave  them  the 
form  of  eloquent  conversation,  and  acquired  a  high 
reputation  as  a  professor  and  critic.  He  was  admitted 
to  the  Academy  in  1821.  Under  the  new  regime  he 


ABEL  FRANCOIS  VILLEMAIN 


199 


became  a  Peer  of  France  in  1832,  President  of  the 
Royal  Council  of  Public  Instruction  in  1834,  and  Per¬ 
petual  Secretary  of  the  French  Academy  the  same 
year.  He  was  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  from 
May,  1839,  to  March,  1840,  and  held  the  same  office 
in  the  Cabinet  of  Guizot  from  1840  to  1844. 

Villemain  is  generally  recognized  as  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  writers  of  his  time.  His  style  is  ad¬ 
mirable  and  his  works  present  a  happy  union  of  mod¬ 
eration  with  independence,  while  they  preserve  a  due 
equilibrium  between  reason  and  imagination. 

-HE  CHARACTERS  OF  “  TELEMACHUS.” 

Without  doubt  Fenelon  has  participated  in  the  faults 
of  those  that  he  imitated;  and  if  the  combats  of  Tele- 
machus  have  the  grandeur  and  the  fire  of  the  combats  of 
the  Iliad,  Mentor  sometimes  speaks  as  long  as  one  of 
Homer’s  heroes ;  and  sometimes  the  details  of  a  some¬ 
what  commonplace  moral  discussion  remind  us  of  the 
long  interviews  of  the  Cyropedia.  Considering  T ele- 
machus  as  an  inspiration  of  the  Greek  muses,  it  seems 
that  the  genius  of  Fenelon  receives  from  them  a  force 
that  to  him  was  unnatural.  The  vehemence  of  Sopho¬ 
cles  is  completely  preserved  in  the  savage  imprecations 
of  Philoctetes.  Love  burns  in  the  heart  of  Eucharis  as 
in  the  verses  of  Theocritus.  Although  the  beauties  of 
antiquity  seems  to  have  been  gleaned  for  the  compo¬ 
sition  of  Telemachus,  there  remains  to  the  author  some 
glory  of  invention,  without  taking  account  of  what  is 
creative  in  the  imitation  of  foreign  beauties,  inimitable 
before  and  after  Fenelon.  Nothing  is  more  beautiful 
than  the  arrangement  of  Telemachus,  and  we  do  not  find 
less  grandeur  in  the  general  idea  than  taste  and  skill 
in  the  union  and  contrast  of  episodes.  The  chaste  and 
modest  loves  of  Antiope,  introduced  at  the  end  of  the 
poem,  correct,  in  a  sublime  manner,  the  transports  of 
Calypso.  The  interest  of  passion  is  thus  twice  produced 
—  once  under  the  image  of  madness  and  again  under 


200 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


that  of  virtue.  But,  as  Telemachus  is  especially  a  book 
of  political  ethics,  what  the  author  paints  with  most  force 
is  ambition,  that  malady  of  kings  which  brings  death 
to  peoples  —  ambition,  great  and  generous  in  Sesostris, 
imprudent  in  Idomeneus;  tyrannical  and  calamitous  in 
Pygmalion;  barbarous,  hypocritical,  and  ingenious  in 
Adrastus.  This  last  character,  superior  to  Virgil’s  Me- 
zentius,  is  traced  with  a  vigor  of  imagination  that  no 
historical  truth  could  surpass.  This  invention  of  per¬ 
sonages  is  not  less  rare  than  the  general  invention  of  a 
plan.  The  happiest  character  among  these  truthful  por¬ 
traits  is  that  of  young  Telemachus.  More  developed, 
more  active  than  the  Telemachus  of  the  Odyssey,  he  com¬ 
bines  all  that  can  surprise,  attach,  and  instruct  —  in  the 
age  of  passions  he  is  under  the  guard  of  wisdom,  which 
often  allows  him  to  fail,  because  faults  are  the  education 
of  men ;  he  has  the  pride  of  the  throne,  the  transport  of 
heroism,  and  the  candor  of  early  youth.  Plis  mixture  of 
hauteur  and  naivete,  of  force  and  submission,  forms  per¬ 
haps  the  most  touching  and  the  most  amiable  character 
invented  by  the  epic  muse ;  and,  doubtless,  Rousseau,  a 
great  master  in  the  art  of  painting  and  touching,  felt  this 
marvellous  charm  when  he  supposed  that  Telemachus 
would  be,  in  the  eyes  of  chastity  and  innocence,  the  ideal 
model  worthy  of  a  first  love. 


^§^ILLON,  Francois,  a  French  poet;  born  at  Paris 
in  1431 ;  died  at  St.  Maixent  about  1484.  His 
]  AfiV  real  name  was  Montcorbier ;  he  took  the  name 
Villon  from  a  patron.  He  has  been  called  the  first 
poet  of  France  —  first  as  one  who  disregarded  the  arti¬ 
ficial  verse  that  reigned,  and,  from  the  depths  of  his 
personal  experiences  and  humane  sympathies,  spoke 
out  with  a  simple  earnestness  none  the  less  true  because 
interspersed  with  a  cheerful  though  sometimes  des- 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


201 


perately  ironical  humor.  His  life  was  that  of  a  poor 
profligate,  at  times  criminal,  vagabond,  and  his  char¬ 
acter  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  he  was  long 
described  as  “  the  poet-thief  ”  and  “  the  literary  house¬ 
breaker.”  From  certain  lines  in  his  verses,  it  is  con¬ 
cluded  that  he  was  of  poor  parentage.  He  studied 
at  the  University  of  Paris ;  but  in  1461  he  was  com¬ 
mitted  to  prison  at  Melun,  with  five  accomplices,  for 
a  crime  the  nature  of  which  is  not  certainly  known. 
Whatever  it  was,  he  tells  us  that  he  was  tempted  into 
it  by  his  mistress,  who  afterward  deserted  him.  After 
remaining  in  a  dungeon  and  in  chains  during  a  whole 
summer,  he  was  condemned  to  be  hanged ;  but  Louis 
XI.,  then  newly  come  to  the  throne,  commuted  his  sen¬ 
tence  into  exile,  in  consideration  of  his  poetical  abil¬ 
ities.  “  Villon  is  perhaps  the  only  man,”  says  Carey, 
“  whom  the  Muse  has  rescued  from  the  gallows.”  Af¬ 
ter  his  release  he  was  reduced  to  such  straits  that  he 
was  forced  to  beg  his  bread.  It  is  asserted  by  Rabelais 
that  Villon  was  subsequently  in  favor  with  Edward  V. 
of  England.  Besides  his  Petit  Testament,  written  in 
1456,  and  his  Grand  Testament  (1461),  composed 
during  his  imprisonment,  his  published  writings  con¬ 
sist  of  only  a  few  ballads  in  the  language  d’Argot  —  a 
sort  of  slang  used  among  knaves  of  that  age,  but  now 
wholly  unintelligible.  His  two  “  Testaments,”  which 
have  been  highly  praised,  are  humorous  pieces,  in 
which  a  fancied  disposal  of  property  is  made,  with  the 
view  only  of  raising  a  laugh  at  the  legatees  —  a  species 
of  drollery  in  which  Villon  has  had  many  imitators. 
His  poems  were  edited  by  Clement  Marot,  at  the  in¬ 
stance  of  Francis  I.,  and  several  editions  have  been 
published  since. 

John  Payne  translated  Villon’s  poems  in  1878  and 


202 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


1 88 1,  doing  them  into  English  verse,  for  the  first  time, 
in  their  original  forms.  Some  verbal  changes  are 
made  in  Payne’s  translation,  e.g.,  retaining  the  French 
heaulmiere ,  in  the  “  Regrets  of  the  beautiful 
heaulmiere”  which,  referring  to  some  kind  of  bonnet 
or  cap  of  the  time,  is  confusing  when  literally  translated 
helm-maker,  and  makes  a  bad  accent  in  the  second  line 
of  the  poem.  Mr.  Payne’s  old-fashioned  title-page 
and  quaint  translations  are  in  happy  keeping  with  the 
ancient  reliques.  The  best  French  edition  complete 
is  by  M.  Jannet  (1867),  but  contains  verses  in  jargon 
and  the  Replies  Franches,  which  are  not  believed  to 
be  the  work  of  Villon. 

It  is  while  in  prison,  under  sentence  of  death,  that 
Villon  composed  the  magnificent  ballad  in  which  he 
imagines  himself  and  his  companions  hanging  dead 
upon  the  gibbet  of  Montfaucon. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  HANGED. 

Brothers,  who  still  may  live  —  our  own  lives  spent  — 
We  pray  you  harden  not  your  hearts  at  sight 
Of  us  poor  sinners;  so,  in  mercy  bent, 

Shall  God’s  full  pity  on  your  souls  alight. 

Look  up  and  see  us  dangling,  three  and  four : 

As  for  the  flesh  we  loved  so  much  of  yore, 

’Tis  gone,  devoured  by  birds,  and  rotted  off; 

We  are  but  hanging  bones,  on  gibbet  dressed: 

Let  no  man  at  our  wretched  guise  make  scoff: 

But  pray  God  all,  that  He  may  give  us  rest. 

And  if  we  call  you  brethren,  do  not  show 
Gesture  disdainful  —  though  ’tis  true  we  died 
By  act  of  justice:  think  that  men  are  so, 

And  all  are  not  by  wisdom  justified. 

Therefore  let  prayers  from  tender  hearts  begun 
Continue  to  the  Blessed  Virgin’s  Son; 

Pray  that  His  grace  be  not  entirely  lost- 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


203 


Dead  are  we:  O  that  Christ  may  give  His  best; 

Dead  souls  with  living  men  are  never  crossed : 

Yet  pray  God  all,  that  He  may  give  us  rest. 

The  rain  that  falls  upon  us  washes  all ; 

The  sun  that  shines  has  blackened  us  and  dried : 
Ravens  and  crows  have  plucked  out  eye  and  ball, 

Have  picked  at  beard  and  at  our  locks  have  tried. 
Never  at  any  time  do  we  sit  down, 

But  here  and  there  by  shifting  breezes  blown, 

We  change,  ne’er  resting,  at  the  wild  wind’s  will, 
While  birds  are  pecking  cheek,  and  head,  and  breast. 

Brothers,  let  cruel  mockery  be  still : 

And  pray  God  all,  that  He  may  give  us  rest. 

Prince  Jesus,  Thou  who  Lordship  hast  o’er  all, 

Keep  us  from  mastery  and  might  of  Hell ; 

Let  us  not  lie  accursed,  but  with  Thy  blest : 

And  ye,  O  brothers,  read  our  lesson  well, 

And  pray  God  all,  that  He  may  give  us  rest. 

—  Translation  of  Walter  Besant. 

BALLAD  OF  OLD-TIME  LADIES. 

Tell  me  where,  in  what  land  of  shade, 

Hides  fair  Flora  of  Rome,  and  where 
Are  Thais  and  Archipiade, 

Cousins  german  in  beauty  rare  ? 

And  Echo,  more  than  mortal  fair, 

That,  when  one  calls  by  river-flow 
Or  marish,  answers  out  of  air? 

But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Where  did  the  learn’d  Helo’isa  vade, 

For  whose  sake  Abelard  did  not  spare 
(Such  dole  for  love  on  him  was  laid) 

Manhood  to  lose  and  a  cowl  to  wear? 

And  where  is  the  queen  who  willed  whilere 
That  Burdan,  tied  in  a  sack  should  go 

Floating  down  Seine  from  the  turret-stair? 

But  what  has  become  of  last  yeaVs  snow? 


04 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


Blanche,  too,  the  lily-white  queen,  that  made 
Sweet  music  as  if  she  a  siren  were  ; 

Broad-foot  Bertha;  and  Joan  the  maid, 

The  good  Lorrainer,  the  English  bare 
Captive  to  Rouen,  and  burned  her  there: 
Beatrix,  Eremburge,  Alys  —  lo  ! 

Where  are  they,  virgin  debonair? 

But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Envoi. 

Prince,  you  may  question  how  they  fare 
This  week,  or  liefer  this  year,  I  trow : 

Still  shall  this  burden  the  answer  bear, 

But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

BALLAD  OF  THE  OLD-TIME  LORDS. 

Where  is  Calixtus,  third  of  the  name, 

That  died  in  the  purple  whiles  ago, 

Four  years  since  he  to  the  tiar  came? 

And  the  King  of  Aragon,  Alfonso? 

The  Duke  of  Bourbon,  sweet  of  show, 

And  the  Duke  Arthur  of  Brittaine? 

And  Charles  the  Seventh,  the  Good.  Heigh  ho 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemagne? 

Likewise  the  King  of  Scots,  whose  shame 
Was  the  half  of  his  face  (or  folks  say  so). 
Vermeil  as  amethyst  held  to  the  flame, 

From  chin  to  forehead  all  of  a  glow? 

The  King  of  Cyprus,  of  friend  and  foe 
Renowned ;  and  the  gentle  King  of  Spain, 

Whose  name,  alas,  I  do  not  know? 

But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaine? 

Of  many  more  might  I  ask  the  same, 

That  are  but  dust  that  the  breezes  blow; 

But  I  desist,  for  none  may  claim 

To  stand  against  Death,  that  lays  all  low. 

Yet  one  more  question  before  I  go: 

Where  is  Lancelot,  King  of  Behaine  ? 


FRANCOIS  VILLON 


205 


And  where  are  his  valiant  ancestors  now? 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemcdnef 

Envoi. 

Where  is  Du  Guesclin,  the  Breton  prow? 

Where  is  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne  lain? 
Where  is  Alenqon’s  good  duke  ?  Lo  ! 

But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaine? 

REGRETS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  HEAULMIERE. 

Methought  I  heard  the  fair  complain  — 

The  fair  that  erst  was  heaulmiere  — 

And  wish  herself  a  girl  again. 

After  this  fashion  did  I  hear : 

“  Alack  !  old  age,  felon  and  drear : 

Why  hast  so  early  laid  me  low? 

What  hinders  but  I  slay  me  here, 

And  so  at  one  stroke  end  my  woe?  .  .  . 

“  I  did  to  many  me  deny 

(Therein  I  showed  but  little  guile) 

For  love  of  one  right  false  and  sly, 

Whom  without  stint  I  loved  erewhile, 

On  whomsoever  I  might  smile, 

I  loved  him  well,  sorry  or  glad ; 

But  he  to  me  was  harsh  and  vile, 

And  loved  me  but  for  what  I  had. 

“  Ill  as  he  used  me,  and  howe’er 
Unkind,  I  loved  him  none  the  less : 

Even  had  he  made  me  fagots  bear 
And  bind,  one  kiss  and  one  caress, 

And  I  forgot  his  wickedness. 

The  rogue  !  ’twas  ever  thus  the  same 
With  him.  It  brought  me  scant  liesse: 
And  what  is  left  me?  Sin  and  shame. 

“  Now  is  he  dead  this  thirty  year, 

And  I’m  grown  old  and  worn  and  gray: 
When  I  recall  the  days  that  were 


206 


FRANK  VINCENT 


And  think  of  what  I  am  to-day, 

And  when  disrobed  myself  survey 
And  see  my -body  shrunk  to  naught, 

Withered  and  shrivelled  —  well-a-day  ! 

For  grief  I  am  well-nigh  distraught. 

“  Where  is  that  clear  and  crystal  brow  ? 

Those  eyebrows  arched  and  golden  hair? 

And  those  clear  eyes,  where  are  they  now, 
Wherewith  the  wisest  ravished  were? 

The  little  nose  so  straight  and  fair; 

The  tiny,  tender,  perfect  ear ; 

Where  is  the  dimpled  chin,  and  where 
The  pouting  lips  so  red  and  clear?”  .  . 

And  so  the  litany  goes  round 

Lamenting  the  good  time  gone  by, 

Amongst  us  crouched  upon  the  ground, 

Poor  silly  hags,  all  huddled  by 
A  scanty  fire  of  hemp-stalks  dry, 

Easy  to  light  and  soon  gone  out ; 

(We  that  once  held  our  heads  so  high) 

So  all  take  turn  and  turn  about. 

—  Translation  of  John  Payne. 


INCENT,  Frank,  an  American  traveler;  born 
at  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  April  2,  1848.  After  re¬ 
ceiving  his  education  at  Yale,  he  traveled  for 
eleven  years,  visiting  all  parts  of  the  world.  His 
valuable  collection  of  Siamese  and  Cambodian  antiqui¬ 
ties  he  presented  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  New 
York  in  1884.  Mr.  Vincent  is  a  member  of  many 
geographical  and  ethnological  societies,  and  has  re¬ 
ceived  decorations  from  the  Kings  of  Burma,  Siam, 
and  Cambodia.  His  works  are  The  Land  of  the  White 


FRANK  VINCENT 


20  7 


Elephant  (1874);  Through  and  Through  the  Tropics 
(1876)  ;  Two  Months  in  Burma  (1877)  ;  The  Wonder- 
fid  Ruins  of  Cambodia  (1878);  Norsk,  Lapp,  and 
Finn  (1881);  Around  and  About  South  America 
(1888)  ;  The  Republics  of  South  America  (1889)  5  I n 
and  Out  of  Central  America  (1890)  ;  and  Actual  Af¬ 
rica  (1895).  With  A.  E.  Lancaster  he  wrote  The 
Lady  of  Cawnpore  (1891). 

THE  SHOAY  DAGON. 

The  most  wonderful  sight  in  Rangoon  is  the  great 
Shoay  Dagon,  or  Golden  Pagoda  —  the  largest  edifice  of 
the  kind  in  Burma,  and  probably  the  largest  in  the  world. 
The  entrance,  guarded  by  two  huge  griffins  of  brick 
and  mortar,  passes  between  long,  narrow  sheds,  which 
are  beautifully  carved  and  gaudily  painted  in  vermilion 
and  gold,  and  covered  with  representations  of  Buddhistic 
tortures  reserved  for  the  damned,  and  thence,  mounting 
a  very  dilapidated  staircase,  the  immense  stone  terrace 
upon  which  the  pagoda  itself  stands  is  reached.  This  ter¬ 
race  is  nearly  a  thousand  feet  square,  and  the  base  of 
the  structure,  standing  at  its  centre,  is  octagonal-shaped 
and  fifteen  hundred  feet  in  circumference,  while  the  en¬ 
tire  height  of  the  pagoda  is  three  hundred  feet.  It  is  built 
of  solid  masonry  and  lime,  covered  with  gold-leaf,  and 
gradually  tapers  to  a  spire  which  terminates  in  a  tee  (um¬ 
brella),  an  open  iron-work  cap,  twenty-six  feet  in  height. 
The  gold  upon  this  pagoda  is  said  to  equal  the  weight  of 
a  former  Burmese  king,  and  the  spire  blazes  so  fiercely 
under  a  noonday’s  sun  as  to  almost  dazzle  the  beholder. 
At  the  base  of  the  immense  structure  are  broad  stone 
steps  and  large  griffins,  and  also  some  smaller  pagodas  of 
like  design. 

Within  the  enclosure  of  the  pagoda  are  many  temples, 
most  of  them  containing  huge  images  of  Gaudama  (the 
last  Buddha),  made  of  wood,  brick  and  lime,  marble  and 
metal,  and  nearly  all  thickly  gilded ;  some  of  the  sitting 
figures  are  twelve  feet,  and  some  of  the  standing  ones  as 


20 8 


JOHN  HEYL  VINCENT 


much  as  eighteen  feet  in  height.  I  noticed  that  all  the 
faces  wore  a  humorous,  contented  expression,  one  sensual, 
however,  rather  than  intellectual.  Some  of  their  drapery 
was  made  of  minute  pieces  of  glass;  especially  were  the 
fringes  of  robes  thus  ornamented.  This  gave  them  the 
appearance  of  coats  of  mail,  and  when  different-colored 
glasses  were  used  in  a  court-dress  the  effect  was  quite 
gay.  Some  of  the  idols  were  clothed  in  yellow  garments 
• — yellow  being  the  ordained  color  of  all  priestly  robes. 
On  small  tables  in  front  of  many  of  the  images  were 
placed  candles,  flowers,  and  little  flags ;  some  of  these 
being  used  in  the  forms  of  worship,  and  some  having 
been  presented  as  offerings  by  religious  devotees.  Lofty 
poles  were  planted  at  short  intervals  around  the  pagoda. 
These  were  crowned  with  tees,  and  also  at  several  feet 
from  their  tops  were  fixed  rudely  made  game-cocks  —  the 
national  emblem  of  the  Burmese  —  and  the  remainder  of 
the  pole  was  hung  with  vari-colored  streamers.  Burma 
is  well  known  to  be  one  of  the  strongholds  of  Buddhism. 
The  Shoay  Dagon  Pagoda  derives  its  peculiar  sanctity 
from  being  the  depository,  according  to  Burmese  tradi¬ 
tion,  of  relics  of  the  last  four  Buddhas. —  The  Land  of  the 
White  Elephant. 


SINCENT,  John  Heyl,  an  American  clergyman; 
born  at  Tuscaloosa,  Ala.,  February  23,  1832. 
He  was  educated  in  Milton  and  Lewisburg, 
Pa.,  and  was  educated  for  the  Methodist  ministry  in 
New  Jersey.  In  1855  he  was  ordained  deacon,  and 
in  1857  was  transferred  from  the  New  Jersey  into 
the  Rock  River  Conference,  serving  as  pastor  in  Ga¬ 
lena,  Chicago,  and  other  western  cities  until  1865.  In 
that  year  he  founded  the  Northwest  Sunday-School 
Quarterly  and  in  18 66  The  Sunday-School  Teacher. 
Prom  1868  till  1884  he  was  secretary  of  the  Methodist 


JOHN  HEYL  VINCENT 


2og 


Episcopal  Sunday-School  Union  and  Tract  Society. 
He  has  been  editor  of  many  Sunday-school  publica¬ 
tions  of  his  denomination.  In  1873  he  organized  a 
Sunday-school  teachers’  institute  to  prepare  teachers 
for  their  work.  This  met  at  Chautauqua,  N.  Y.,  in 
1874,  and  has  since  assembled  yearly  at  that  place.  At 
the  Methodist  conference  of  1888  he  was  elected 
bishop.  His  publications  include  :  Little  Footprints  in 
Bible  Lands  (1861)  ;  The  Chautauqua  Movement 
(1886)  ;  The  Home  Book  (1886)  ;  The  Modern  Sun¬ 
day-School  (1887)  ;  Better  Not  (1887),  and  later  for 
the  Chautauqua  Text-book  series,  Bible  Outlines ;  Bib¬ 
lical  Explanation ;  Christian  Evidences ;  English  His¬ 
tory;  Greek  History;  Outlines  of  General  History; 
and  also  Unto  Him  (1899). 

COLLATERAL  AIDS. 

The  Bible  is  an  immense  book.  It  is  as  wonderful 
for  its  richness  and  variety  as  for  its  magnitude.  There 
is  scarcely  a  branch  of  human  knowledge  upon  which 
it  does  not  shed  some  light.  It  is  a  book  of  diverse 
sciences  albeit  its  central  science  is  that  of  salvation. 
To  this  all  the  rest  bow  as  the  sheaves  of  Hebron  and 
the  stars  of  Heaven  bowed  to  Joseph. 

In  the  unfolding  of  the  plan  of  redemption  which  the 
Bible  records  we  find  a  treasure  of  history,  of  biog¬ 
raphy,  of  geography,  of  ancient,  peculiar,  and  almost 
forgotten  usages,  of  philosophy,  ethics,  of  theology  — 
such  as  no  other  book  in  the  world  contains.  Now  if  a 
man  would  be  head-master  of  the  school  in  which  this 
great  volume  is  the  text-book,  he  must  indeed  give 
himself  wholly  to  these  things.  He  has  no  time  for 
anything  else.  He  must  be  literally  homo  unius  libri. 

The  minister  who  becomes  an  enthusiastic  pastor  and 
teacher  will  find  the  pulpit  a  limited  sphere  and  the  Sab¬ 
bath  but  a  small  portion  of  the  time  he  needs  for  exposi¬ 
tion,  and  for  training  his  people  in  the  contents  of  the 
Vol.  'XXIII.— 14 


210 


JOHN  HEYL  VINCENT 


Book.  Prizing  all  the  knowledge  which  God  has  there 
communicated,  he  seeks  to  awaken  in  his  young  people 
and  among  the  old  an  intense  delight  in  truth.  He 
trains  them  in  Bible  history  and  biography,  knowing  how 
much  is  lost  by  not  taking  up  its  events  in  their  due 
chronological  order.  He  trains  his  people  in  Bible  geog¬ 
raphy  —  for  how  can  one  adequately  comprehend  history 
without  geography?  Is  not  the  Bible  full  of  geography? 
And  do  not  the  lands  of  the  Bible  yet  remain  singularly 
unchanged  in  most  of  their  features,  as  though  God  would 
preserve  the  land  to  complement  and  thus  corroborate  and 
illustrate  the  Book  ?  The  old  customs  —  domestic,  politi¬ 
cal,  religious  —  how  they  are  inwrought  into  the  very 
texture  of  the  divine  poetry,  prophecy,  and  precept !  One 
cannot  clearly  interpret  the  Word  unless  he  knows  these 
customs.  And  does  not  the  far  East  still  hold  them?  Are 
they  not  glowing  on  granite  and  marble  walls  in  Egypt? 
Do  not  the  clay-books  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon  perpetuate 
the  knowledge  of  them  ?  Our  wholly  consecrated  pastor 
brings  land  and  book,  custom  and  book,  picture  and  book, 
together.  The  one  explains  the  other.  The  young  people 
who  cared  little  for  the  Bible  at  first  have  been  led  into 
the  very  heart  of  it  by  way  of  Egypt  and  Sinai  and  Syria 
and  Nineveh.  They  looked  eagerly  at  the  “  stones  ”  he 
showed  them,  and  lo  !  they  found  written  on  them  the  com¬ 
mandments  of  God. 

The  Bible  is  a  book  of  doctrines.  The  Church  Cate¬ 
chism  is  a  systematic  arrangement  of  these  doctrines. 
They  are  these  formulated.  They  are  to  be  buried  in 
the  mind  of  childhood  as  the  conduits  and  water-pipes 
are  laid  under  a  city.  For  a  time  they  seem  almost  use¬ 
less;  hidden  and  forgotten.  But  lo  !  one  day  the  gates  in 
the  reservoir  are  hoisted,  and  through  the  buried  pipes 
rushes  a  stream  of  cold,  refreshing,  delightful,  life-giving 
water.  So  our  pastor  believes  in  the  “  dry-formulas  ” 
of  faith ;  but  he  teaches  them  in  so  pleasant  a  manner  that 
they  never  seem  dry  to  his  scholars,  and  betimes,  and 
before  a  long  time,  too,  the  streams  of  salvation  flow 
through  them. 

The  Church  is  also  an  army.  The  pastor  knows  this 
well,  and  all  the  week  keeps  his  people  drilling,  and  war- 


PUBLIUS  V  ERG  I  LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


211 


ring,  and  working.  He  raises  up  from  among  his  little 
people  a  band  of  willing  laborers  and  brave  soldiers.  He 
scatters  tracts  by  their  hands.  He  collects  by  their  aid 
missionary  money.  He  distributes  Bibles,  he  visits  the 
poor,  the  sick,  and  the  imprisoned  through  his  busy  people. 

Knowing  that  service  rendered  is  all  the  more  zealously 
and  efficiently  performed  if  it  be  intelligent  service,  he 
trains  his  people  in  missionary  work.  They  know  the 
missionary  maps  and  the  various  fields  of  missionary  labor, 
the  peculiar  difficulties  to  be  overcome,  the  measure  of 
success  achieved  already,  the  work  remaining  to  be  done. 

He  moreover  trains  his  people  in  all  kinds  of  Christian 
work,  and  makes  them  acquainted  as  far  as  possible  with 
the  history  of  eleemosynary  institutions  and  brotherhoods 
the  world  over.  The  Church  is  itself  a  “  college  for  Bible 
students  and  for  Christian  workers.”  —  The  Church 
School. 


IRGIL,  Publius  Vergilius  Maro,  a  Latin  poet ; 


born  on  the  banks  of  the  Mincio,  in  the  district 


LyKfC  Gf  Andes,  October  19,  70  b.c.  ;  died  at  Brun- 
dusium,  September  21,  19  b.c.  Though  his  parents 
were  of  humble  origin,  they  were  able  to  give  him  a 
good  education,  and  he  was  sent  to  school  at  Cre¬ 
mona.  Soon  after  his  sixteenth  year  he  went  to 
Milan,  where  he  continued  his  studies  until  he  went 
to  Rome  two  years  later.  At  Rome  he  studied  rhetoric 
and  philosophy  under  the  best  teachers  of  the  time. 
His  studies  were  probably  interrupted  by  the  civil  war, 
for  little  is  known  of  his  life  for  the  next  few  years. 
His  father’s  farm,  with  other  lands,  was  confiscated 
and  given  to  the  soldiers,  and  though,  through  the 
influence  of  friends  and  a  personal  appeal  to  the 
Emperor,  he  obtained  the  restitution  of  it,  he  never 


212 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


succeeded  in  getting  possession  of  it.  In  37  b.c, 
the  Eclogues ,  a  collection  of  ten  pastorals  modelled  on 
those  of  Theocritus,  were  published  and  were  at  once 
received  with  favor.  Soon  after  this  he  withdrew 
from  Rome  and  went  to  Campania,  residing  at  Naples 
or  at  his  country-house  near  Nola.  He  spent  the 
next  seven  years  in  the  composition  of  the  Georgies, 
or  Art  of  Husbandry.  This  poem,  which  is  in  four 
books,  and  which  is  considered  his  most  original  and 
finished  work,  appeared  in  30  b.c.  The  rest  of  his  life, 
eleven  years,  was  spent  on  the  ./Eneid,  a  work  under¬ 
taken  at  the  urgent  request  of  the  Emperor.  During 
the  years  of  its  composition  he  traveled  in  Grece  and 
occasionally  visited  Rome,  but  spent  most  of  his  time 
in  retirement.  In  19  b.c.  he  had  completed  the  AEneid, 
and  he  left  Italy  for  Athens,  intending  to  spend  three 
years  in  Greece  and  Asia,  and  devote  this  time  to  the 
revision  of  the  work.  At  Athens  he  met  Augustus 
and  was  persuaded  by  him  to  return  to  Italy.  At 
Megara,  he  was  taken  ill,  but  continued  his  voyage,, 
though  he  constantly  grew  worse,  and  died  at  Brun- 
dusium  soon  after  landing.  At  his  own  request  he 
was  buried  at  Naples.  In  his  last  illness  he  requested 
to  have  the  AEneid  burned,  but  the  Emperor  would  not 
permit  this.  From  this  fact  it  has  been  supposed  that 
he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  poem.  Virgil  is  repre¬ 
sented  as  tall  and  dark,  of  a  delicate  constitution,  shy 
and  reserved  in  his  manners,  sincere  in  character,  and 
of  a  gentle  disposition.  He  was  never  married. 

THE  2ENEID. 

Argument. —  The  Trojans,  after  a  seven-years’  voyage, 
set  sail  for  Italy,  but  are  overtaken  by  a  dreadful  storm, 
which  /Eolus  raises  at  Juno’s  request.  The  tempest  sinks 


I 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


213 


one  vessel  and  scatters  the  rest;  Neptune  drives  off  the 
winds,  and  calms  the  sea.  Hineas,  with  his  own  ship  and 
six  more,  arrives  safely  at  an  African  port.  Venus  com¬ 
plains  to  Jupiter  of  her  son’s  misfortunes.  Jupiter  com¬ 
forts  her,  and  sends  Mercury  to  procure  him  a  kind  recep¬ 
tion  among  the  Carthaginians.  ^Eneas  going  out  to 
discover  the  country,  meets  his  mother  in  the  shape  of  a 
huntress,  who  conveys  him  in  a  cloud  to  Carthage,  where 
he  sees  his  friends  whom  he  thought  lost,  and  receives  a 
kind  entertainment  from  the  queen.  Dido,  by  a  device  of 
Venus,  begins  to  have  a  passion  for  him,  and,  after  some 
discourse  with  him,  desires  the  history  of  his  adventures 
since  the  siege  of  Troy,  which  is  the  subject  of  the  two 
following  books. 

Arms  and  the  man  I  sing,  who  first 
By  fate  of  Ilian  realm  amerced, 

To  fair  Italia  onward  bore, 

And  landed  on  Lavinium’s  shore :  — 

Long  tossing  earth  and  ocean  o’er, 

By  violence  of  heaven,  to  sate 
Fell  Juno’s  unforgetting  hate: 

Much  labored  too  in  battle-field. 

Striving  his  city’s  walls  to  build, 

And  give  his  Gods  a  home : 

Thence  come  the  hardy  Latin  brood, 

The  ancient  sires  of  Alba’s  blood, 

And  lofty-rampired  Rome. 

Say,  Muse,  for  godhead  how  disdained, 

Or  wherefore  wroth,  Heaven’s  queen  constrained 

That  soul  of  piety  so  long 

To  turn  the  wheel,  to  cope  with  wrong. 

Can  heavenly  natures  nourish  hate 
So  fierce,  so  blindly  passionate? 

There  stood  a  city  on  the  sea 
Manned  by  a  Tyrian  colony, 

Named  Carthage,  fronting  far  to  south 
Italia’s  coast  and  Tiber’s  mouth, 

Rich  in  all  wealth,  all  means  of  rule, 


214 


! PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


And  hardened  in  war’s  sternest  school. 

Men  say  the  place  was  Juno’s  pride 
More  than  all  lands  on  earth  beside; 

E’en  Samos’  self  not  half  so  dear: 

Here  were  her  arms,  her  chariot  here : 

Here,  goddess-like,  to  fix  one  day 
The  seat  of  universal  sway, 

Might  Fate  be  wrung  to  yield  assent, 

E’en  then  her  schemes,  her  cares  were  bent. 
Yet  had  she  heard  that  sons  of  Troy 
Were  born  her  Carthage  to  destroy ; 

From  those  majestic  loins  should  spring 
A  nation  like  a  warrior  king, 

Ordained  for  Libya’s  overthrow: 

The  web  of  fate  was  woven  so. 

This  was  her  fear:  and  fear  renewed 
The  memory  of  that  earlier  feud, 

The  war  at  Troy  she  erst  had  waged 
In  darling  Argos’  cause  engaged : 

Nor  yet  had  faded  from  her  view 
The  insults  whence  those  angers  grew ; 

Deep  in  remembrance  lives  engrained 
The  judgment  which  her  charms  disdained, 
The  offspring  of  adulterous  seed, 

The  rape  of  minion  Ganymede : 

With  such  resentments  brimming  o’er, 

She  tossed  and  tossed  from  shore  to  shore 
The  Trojan  bands,  poor  relics  these 
Of  Achillean  victories, 

Away,  from  Latium :  many  a  year, 
Fate-driven,  they  wandered  far  and  near: 

So  vast  the  labor  to  create 
The  fabric  of  the  Roman  state ! 

Scarce  out  of  sight  of  Sicily 
Troy’s  crews  were  spreading  sail  to  sea, 
Pleased  o’er  the  foam  to  run, 

When  Juno,  feeding  evermore 
The  vulture  at  her  bosom’s  core, 

Thus  to  herself  begun : 

“What?  I  give  way?  has  Juno  willed. 


PUBLIUS  VERG1LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


215 


And  must  her  will  be  unfulfilled? 

Too  weak  from  Latium’s  coast  to  fling 
Back  to  the  sea  this  Trojan  king? 

Restrained  by  Fate?  Could  Pallas  fire 
The  Argive  fleet  to  wreak  her  ire, 

And  drown  the  crews,  for  one  offence, 

Mad  Ajax’  curst  incontinence? 

She  from  the  clouds  Jove’s  lightning  cast. 
Dispersed  the  ships,  the  billows  massed, 

Caught  the  scathed  wretch,  whose  breast  exhaled 
Fierce  flames,  and  on  a  rock  impaled : 

I  who  through  heaven  its  mistress  move, 

The  sister  and  the  wife  of  Jove, 

With  one  poor  tribe  of  earth  cntend 
Long  years  revolving  without  end. 

Will  any  Juno’s  power  adore 
Henceforth,  or  crown  her  altars  more?” 

Such  fiery  tumult  in  her  mind, 

She  seeks  the  birthplace  of  the  wind, 
yEolia,  realm  for  ever  rife 
With  turbid  elemental  life : 

Here  ^Eolus  in  a  cavern  vast 
With  bolt  and  barrier  fetters  fast 
Rebellious  storm  and  howling  blast. 

They  with  the  rock’s  reverberant  roar 
Chafe  blustering  round  their  prison-door: 

He,  throned  on  high,  the  sceptre  sways, 

Controls  their  moods,  their  wrath  allays. 

Break  but  that  sceptre,  sea  and  land 
And  heaven’s  ethereal  deep 
Before  them  they  would  whirl  like  sand, 

And  through  the  void  air  sweep. 

But  the  great  Sire,  with  prescient  fear, 

Had  whelmed  them  deep  in  dungeon  drear, 

And  o’er  the  struggling  captives  thrown 
Huge  masses  of  primeval  stone, 

Ruled  by  a  monarch  who  might  know 
To  curb  them  or  to  let  them  go  : 

Whom  now  as  suppliant  at  his  knees 
Juno  bespoke  in  words  like  these* 


2l6 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


“  O  yEolus !  since  the  Sire  of  all 
Has  made  the  wind  obey  thy  call 
To  raise  or  lay  the  foam, 

A  race  I  hate  now  ploughs  the  sea, 
Transporting  Troy  to  Italy 

And  home-gods  reft  of  home : 

Lash  thou  thy  winds,  their  ships  submerge, 
Or  toss  them  weltering  o’er  the  surge. 

Twice  seven  bright  nymphs  attend  on  me, 

The  fairest  of  them  Deiope : 

Her  will  I  give  thee  for  thine  own, 

The  partner  of  thy  heart  and  throne, 

With  thee  to  pass  unending  days 
And  goodly  children  round  thee  raise.” 

The  God  replies :  “  O  Queen,  ’tis  thine 

To  weigh  thy  will,  to  do  it  mine. 

Thou  givest  me  this  poor  kingdom,  thou 
Hast  smoothed  for  me  the  Thunderer’s  brow; 
Givest  me  to  share  the  Olympian  board, 

And  o’er  the  tempests  mak’st  me  lord.” 

He  said,  and  with  his  spear  struck  wide 
The  portals  in  the  mountain  side : 

At  once,  like  soldiers  in  a  band, 

Forth  rush  the  winds,  and  scour  the  land : 
Then  lighting  heavily  on  the  main, 

East,  South,  and  West  with  storms  in  train, 
Heave  from  its  depth  the  watery  floor, 

And  roll  great  billows  to  the  shore. 

Then  come  the  clamor  and  the  shriek, 

The  sailors  shout,  the  main-ropes  creak : 

All  in  a  moment  sun  and  skies 
Are  blotted  from  the  Trojans’  eyes: 

Black  night  is  brooding  o’er  the  deep, 

Sharp  thunder  peals,  live  lightnings  leap: 

The  stoutest  warrior  holds  his  breath, 

And  looks  as  on  the  face  of  death. 

At  once  yEneas  thrilled  with  dread, 

Forth  from  his  breast,  with  hands  outspread, 
These  groaning  words  he  drew : 

“O  happy,  thrice  and  yet  again, 


PUBLIUS  V  ERG  I  LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


Who  died  at  Troy  like  valiant  men. 

E'en  in  their  parents’  view ! 

O  Diomed,  first  of  Greeks  in  fray, 

Why  pressed  I  not  the  plain  that  day. 

Yielding  my  life  to  you, 

Where  stretched  beneath  a  Phrygian  sky 
Fierce  Hector,  tall  Sarpedon  lie: 

Where  Simois  tumbles  ’neath  his  wave 
Shields,  helms,  and  bodies  of  the  brave  ?  ” 

Now,  howling  from  the  north,  the  gale. 
While  thus  he  moans  him,  strikes  his  sail: 

The  swelling  surges  climb  the  sky ; 

The  shattered  oars  in  splinters  fly; 

The  prow  turns  round,  and  to  the  tide 
Lays  broad  and  bare  the  vessel’s  side; 

On  comes  a  billow,  mountain-steep, 

Bears  down,  and  tumbles  in  a  heap. 

These  stagger  on  the  billow’s  crest; 

Those  to  the  yawning  depth  deprest 
See  land  appearing  ’mid  the  waves, 

While  surf  with  sand  in  turmoil  raves. 

Three  ships  the  South  had  caught  and  thrown 
On  scarce  hid  rocks,  as  Altars  known, 

Ridging  the  main,  a  reef  of  stone, 

Three  more  fierce  Eurus  from  the  deep, 

A  sight  to  make  the  gazer  weep, 

Drives  on  the  shoals,  and  banks  them  round 
With  sand,  as  with  a  rampire-mound. 

One,  which  erewhile  from  Lycia’s  shore 
Orontes  and  his  people  bore, 

E’en  in  vEneas’  anguished  sight 

A  sea  down  crashing  from  the  height 
Strikes  full  astern :  the  pilot',  torn 
From  off  the  helm,  is  headlong  borne: 

Three  turns  the  foundered  vessel  gave, 

Then  sank  beneath  the  engulfing  wave. 

There  in  the  vast  abyss  are  seen 
The  swimmers,  few  and  far  between, 

And  warriors’  arms  and  shattered  wood 


2l8 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


And  Trojan  treasures  strew  the  flood. 

And  now  Ilioneus,  and  now 
Aletes  old  and  gray, 

Abas  and  brave  Achates  bow 

Beneath  the  tempest’s  sway; 

Fast  drinking  in  through  timbers  loose 
At  every  pore  the  fatal  ooze, 

Their  sturdy  barks  give  way. 

Meantime  the  turmoil  of  the  main, 

The  tempest  loosened  from  its  chain, 

The  waters  of  the  nether  deep 
Upstarting  from  their  tranquil  sleep, 

On  Neptune  broke :  disturbed  he  hears, 

And  quickened  fly  a  monarch’s  fears, 

His  calm  broad  brow  o’er  ocean  rears. 
./Eneas’  fleet  he  sees  dispersed, 

Whelmed  by  fierce  wave  and  stormy  burst : 
Nor  failed  a  brother’s  eye  to  read 
Junonian  rancor  in  the  deed. 

Forthwith  he  summoned  East  and  West, 
And  thus  his  kingly  wrath  expressed :  — 

“  How  now  ?  presume  ye  on  your  birth 
To  blend  in  chaos  skies  and  earth, 

And  billowy  mountains  heavenward  heave, 
Bold  Winds,  without  my  sovereign  leave? 
Whom  I  —  but  rather  were  it  good 
To  pacify  yon  troubled  flood. 

Offend  once  more,  and  ye  shall  pay 
Upon  a  heavier  reckoning-day. 

Back  to  your  master  instant  flee, 

And  tell  him,  not  to  him  but  me 
The  imperial  trident  of  the  sea 
Fell  by  the  lot’s  award : 

His  is  that  prison-house  of  stone, 

A  mansion,  Eurus,  all  your  own: 

There  let  him  lord  it  to  his  mind, 

The  jailor-monarch  of  the  wind, 

But  keep  its  portal  barred,” 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


2IQ 


He  said,  and,  ere  his  words  were  done 
Allays  the  surge,  brings  back  the  sun : 
Triton  and  swift  Cymothoe  drag 
The  ships  from  off  the  pointed  crag: 

He,  trident-armed,  each  dull  weight  heaves, 
Through  the  vast  shoals  a  passage  cleaves. 
Makes  smooth  the  ruffled  wave,  and  rides 
Calm  o’er  the  surface  of  the  tides. 

As  when  sedition  oft  has  stirred 
In  some  great  town  the  vulgar  herd, 

And  brands  and  stones  already  fly  — 

For  rage  has  weapons  always  nigh  — 

Then  should  some  man  of  worth  appear 
Whose  stainless  virtue  all  revere, 

They  hush,  they  hist :  his  clear  voice  rules 
Their  rebel  wills,  their  anger  cools : 

So  ocean  ceased  at  once  to  rave, 

When,  calmly  looking  o’er  the  wave, 

Girt  with  a  range  of  azure  sky, 

The  father  bids  his  chariot  fly. 

The  tempest-tossed  .Tmeadse 
Strain  for  the  nearest  land, 

And  turn  their  vessels  from  the  sea 
To  Libya’s  welcome  strand. 

Deep  in  a  bay  an  island  makes 
A  haven  by  its  jutting  sides, 

Whereon  each  wave  from  ocean  breaks. 
And  parting  into  hollows  glides. 

High  o’er  the  cove  vast  rocks  extend, 

A  beetling  cliff  at  either  end : 

Beneath  their  summit  far  and  wide 
In  sheltered  silence  sleeps  the  tide, 

While  quivering  forests  crown  the  scene, 
A  theatre  of  glancing  green. 

In  front,  retiring  from  the  wave, 

Opes  on  the  view  a  rock-hung  cave, 

A  home  that  nymphs  might  call  their  own, 
Fresh  springs,  and  seats  of  living  stone: 
No  need  of  rope  or  anchor’s  bite 
To  hold  the  weary  vessel  tight. 

Such  haven  now  gains, 


220 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


With  seven  lorn  ships,  the  scant  remains 
Of  what  was  once  his  fleet: 

Forth  leap  the  Trojans  on  the  sand, 

Lay  down  their  brine-drenched  limbs  on  land. 
And  feel  the  shore  is  sweet. 

And  first  from  flints  together  clashed 
The  latent  spark  Achates  flashed, 

Caught  in  sere  leaves,  and  deftly  nursed 
Till  into  flame  the  fuel  burst. 

Then  from  the  hold  the  crews  o’ertoiled 
Bring  out  their  grain  by  ocean  spoiled, 

And  gird  themselves  with  fire  and  quern 
To  parch  and  grind  the  rescued  corn. 

Meanwhile  flEneas  scales  a  height 
And  sweeps  the  ocean  with  his  sight; 

Might  he  perchance  a  Capys  mark, 

An  Antheus  in  his  Phrygian  bark, 

Or  trace  the  arms  that  wont  to  deck 
Caicus  on  some  laboring  wreck. 

No  vessel  seaward  meets  his  eyes, 

But  on  the  shore  three  stags  he  spies, 

Close  followed  by  a  meaner  throng 
That  grazed  the  winding  coasts  along. 

He  catches  from  Achates’  hand 
Quiver  and  bow,  and  takes  his  stand ; 

And  first  the  lordly  leaders  fall 
With  tree-like  antlers  branching  tall; 

Then,  turning  on  the  multitude, 

He  drives  them  routed  through  the  wood, 

Nor  stays  till  his  victorious  bow 
Has  laid  seven  goodly  bodies  low, 

For  his  seven  ships;  then  portward  fares. 

And  ’mid  his  crews  the  quarry  shares. 

The  wine  which  late  their  princely  host, 

What  time  they  left  Trinacria’s  coast, 
Bestowed  in  casks,  and  freely  gave, 

A  brave  man’s  bounty  to  the  brave, 

With  like  equality  he  parts, 

And  comforts  their  desponding  hearts : 

“  Comrades  and  friends !  for  ours  is  strength 


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Has  brooked  the  test  of  woes ; 

O  worse-scarred  hearts !  these  wounds  at  length 
The  Gods  will  heal,  like  those. 

You  that  have  seen  grim  Scylla  rave, 

And  heard  her  monsters  yell, 

You  that  have  looked  upon  the  cave 
Where  savage  Cyclops  dwell, 

Come,  cheer  your  souls,  your  fears  forget; 

This  suffering  will  yield  us  yet 
A  pleasant  tale  to  tell. 

Through  chance,  through  peril  lies  our  way 
To  Latium,  where  the  fates  display 
A  mansion  of  abiding  stay : 

There  Troy  her  fallen  realm  shall  raise: 

Bear  up,  and  live  for  happier  days.” 

Such  were  his  words :  on  brow  and  tongue 
Sat  hope,  while  grief  his  spirit  wrung. 

They  for  their  dainty  food  prepare, 

Strip  off  the  hide,  the  carcass  bare, 

Divide  and  spit  the  quivering  meat, 

Dispose  the  fire,  the  cauldrons  heat, 

Then,  stretched  on  turf,  their  frames  refresh 
With  generous  wine  and  wild  deer’s  flesh. 

And  now,  when  hunger’s  rage  was  ceased, 

And  checked  the  impatience  of  the  feast, 

In  long  discourse  they  strive  to  track 
And  bring  their  missing  comrades  back. 

Hope  bandies  questions  with  despair, 

If  yet  they  breathe  the  upper  air, 

Or  down  in  final  durance  lie, 

Deaf  to  their  friends’  invoking  cry. 

But  chief  ^Eneas  fondly  yearns, 

And  racks  his  heart  for  each  by  turns, 

Now  weeping  o’er  Orontes’  grave, 

Now  claiming  Lycus  from  the  wave, 

Brave  Gyas,  and  Cloanthus  brave. 

And  now  an  end  had  come,  when  Jove, 

His  broad  view  casting  from  above, 

The  countries  and  their  people  scanned, 


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The  sail-fledged  sea,  the  lowly  land, 

Last  on  the  summit  of  the  sky 
Paused,  and  on  Libya  fixed  his  eye. 

’Twas  then  sad  Venus,  as  he  mused, 

Her  starry  eyes  with  tears  suffused, 

Bespoke  him :  “  Thou  whose  lightnings  awe, 

Whose  will  on  heaven  and  earth  is  law. 

What  has  /Eneas  done,  or  how 
Could  my  poor  Trojans  cloud  thy  brow, 

To  suffer  as  they  suffer  now? 

So  many  deaths  the  race  has  died: 

And  now  behold  them,  lest  one  day 
To  Italy  they  win  their  way, 

Barred  from  all  lands  beside ! 

Once  didst  thou  promise  with  an  oath 

The  Romans  hence  should  have  their  growth, 

Great  chiefs,  from  Teucer’s  line  renewed, 

The  masters  of  a  world  subdued  : 

Fate  heard  the  pledge:  what  power  has  wrought 
To1  turn  the  channel  of  thy  thought? 

That  promise  oft  consoled  my  woe 
For  Ilium’s  piteous  overthrow, 

While  I  could  balance  weight  with  weight, 

The  prosperous  with  the  adverse  fate. 

But  now  the  self-same  fortune  hounds 
The  lorn  survivors  yet : 

And  hast  thou,  mighty  King,  no  bounds 
To  their  great  misery  set? 

Antenor  from  the  Greeks  could  ’scape, 

Mid  Hadria’s  deep  recesses  shape 
His  dangerous  journey,  and  surmount 
The  perils  of  Timavus’  fount, 

Where  with  the  limestone’s  reboant  roar 
Through  nine  loud  mouths  the  sea-waves  pour. 
And  all  the  fields  are  deluged  o’er : 

Yet  here  he  built  Patavium’s  town, 

His  nation  named,  his  arms  laid  down, 

Now  rests  in  honor  and  renown: 

We,  thine  own  race,  on  whom  thy  word 
Olympian  glories  has  conferred, 

Our  vessels  lost,  O  shame  untold ! 


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Are  traitorously  bought  and  sold, 

Still  from  Italia  kept  apart 
To  pacify  one  jealous  heart'. 

Lo  !  piety  with  honor  graced, 

A  monarch  on  his  throne  replaced !  ” 

With  that  refulgence  in  his  eye 
Which  soothes  the  humors  of  the  sky, 
Jove  on  his  daughter’s  lips  impressed 
A  gracious  kiss,  then  thus  addressed : 

“  Queen  of  Cythera  !  spare  thy  pain : 

Thy  children’s  fates  unmoved  remain : 
Thine  eyes  shall  have  their  pledged  desire 
And  see  Lavinium’s  walls  aspire : 

Thine  arms  at  length  shall  bear  on  high 
To  bright  possession  in  the  sky 
^Eneas  the  high-souled :  nor  aught 
Has  turned  the  channel  of  my  thought. 
He  —  for  I  now  will  speak  thee  sooth, 
Vexed  as  thou  art  bv  sorrow’s  tooth, 

Will  ope  the  volume  and  relate 
The  far-off  oracles  of  Fate  — 

Fierce  war  in  Italy  shall  wage, 

Shall  quell  her  people’s  patriot  rage, 

And  give  his  veteran’s  worn  with  strife, 

A  city  and  a  peaceful  life, 

Till  summers  three  have  seen  him  reign. 
Three  winters  crowned  the  dire  campaign. 
But  he,  the  father’s  darling  child, 
Ascanius,  now  lulus  styled 
(Ilus  the  name  the  infant  bore 
Ere  Ilium’s  sky  was  clouded  o’er), 

Shall  thirty  years  of  power  complete, 
Then  from  Lavinium’s  royal  seat 
Transfer  the  empire,  and  make  strong 
The  walls  of  Alba  named  the  Long. 

Three  hundred  years  in  that  proud  town 
Shall  Hector’s  children  wear  the  crown, 
Till  Ilia,  priestess-princess,  bear 
By  Mars’  embrace  a  kingly  pair. 

Then,  with  his  nurse’s  wolf-skin  girt, 


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Shall  Romulus  the  line  assert, 

Invite  them  to  his  new-raised  home, 

And  call  the  martial  city  Rome. 

No  date,  no  goal  I  here  ordain: 

Theirs  is  an  endless,  boundless  reign. 

Nay,  Juno’s  self,  whose  wild  alarms 
Set  ocean,  earth,  and  heaven  in  arms, 

Shall  change  for  smiles  her  moody  frown, 
And  vie  with  me  in  zeal  to  crown 
Rome’s  sons,  the  nation  of  the  gown. 

So  stands  my  will.  There  comes  a  day, 
While  Rome’s  great  ages  hold  their  way, 
When  old  Assaracus’s  sons 
Shall  quit  them  on  the  Myrmidons, 

O’er  Phthia  and  Mycenae  reign, 

And  humble  Argos  to  their  chain. 

From  Troy’s  fair  stock  shall  Caesar  rise. 
The  limits  of  whose  victories 
Are  ocean,  of  his  fame  the  skies ; 

Great  Julius,  proud  that  style  to  bear, 

In  name  and  blood  lulus’  heir. 

Him,  at  the  appointed  time,  increased 
With  plunder  from  the  conquered  East, 
Thine  arms  shall  welcome  to  the  sky, 

And  worshippers  shall  find  him  nigh. 

Then  battles  o’er  the  world  shall  cease, 
Harsh  times  shall  mellow  into  peace: 

Then  Vesta,  Faith,  Quirinus,  joined 
With  brother  Remus,  rule  mankind : 

Grim  iron  bolt  and  massy  bar 
Shall  close  the  dreadful  gates  of  War: 
Within  unnatural  Rage  confined, 

Fast  bound  with  manacles  behind, 

His  dark  head  pillowed  on  a  heap 
Of  clanking  armor,  not  in  sleep, 

Shall  gnash  his  savage  teeth,  and  roar 
From  lips  incarnadined  with  gore.” 

He  said,  and  hastes  from  heaven  to  send 
The  son  of  Maia  down; 

Bids  Carthage  open  to  befriend 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


225 


The  Teucrians,  realm  and  town, 

Lest  Dido,  ignorant  of  fate, 

Should  drive  the  wanderers  from  her  gate. 
Swift  Mercury  cuts  with  plumy  oar 
The  sky,  and  lights  on  Libya’s  shore. 

At  once  he  does  the  Sire’s  behest, 

Each  Tyrian  smooths  his  rugged  breast, 

And  chief  the  queen  has  thoughts  of  grace 
And  pity  to  the  Teucrian  race. 

But  good  SEneas,  through  the  night 
Revolving  many  a  care, 

Determines  with  the  dawn  of  light 
Forth  from  the  port  to  fare, 

Explore  the  stranger  clime,  and  find 
What  land  is  his,  by  stress  of  wind, 

By  what  inhabitants  possessed 
(For  waste  he  sees  it),  man  or  beast. 

And  back  the  tidings  bear. 

Within  a  hollowed  rock’s  retreat, 

Deep  in  the  wood,  he  hides  his  fleet, 

Defended  by  a  leafy  screen 
Of  forestry  and  quivering  green : 

When  with  Achates  moves  along, 

Wielding  two>  spears,  steel-tipped  and  strong 
When  in  the  bosom  of  the  wood 
Before  him,  lo,  his  mother  stood, 

In  mien  and  gear  a  Spartan  maid, 

Or  like  Harpalyce  arrayed, 

Who  tires  fleet  coursers  in  the  chase, 

And  heads  the  swiftest  streams  of  Thrace. 
Slung  from  her  shoulders  hangs  a  bow; 

Loose  to  the  wind  her  tresses  flow ; 

Bare  was  her  knee ;  her  mantle’s  fold 
The  gathering  of  a  knot  controlled. 

And  “  Saw  ye,  youths,”  she  asks  them,  “  say, 
One  of  my  sisters  here  astray, 

A  sylvan  quiver  at  her  side, 

And  for  a  scarf  a  lynx’s  hide, 

Or  pressing  on  the  wild  boar’s  track 
With  upraised  dart  and  voiceful  pack?” 

Vol.  XXIII.— 15 


226  .  PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


Thus  Venus ;  Venus’  son  replied : 

“  No  sister  we  of  thine  have  spied: 

What  name  to  call  thee,  beauteous  maid? 
That  look,  that  voice  the  God  betrayed ; 

Can  it  be  Phoebus’  sister  bright, 

Or  some  fair  Nymph,  has  crossed  our  sight? 
Be  gracious,  whosoe’er  thou  art, 

And  lift  this  burden  from  our  heart ; 

Instruct  us,  ’neath  what  sky  at  last, 

Upon  what  shore,  our  lot  is  cast ; 

We  wander  here,  by  tempest  blown, 

The  people  and  the  place  unknown. 

O  say!  and  many  a  victim’s  life 
Before  thy  shrine  shall  stain  my  knife.” 

Then  Venus:  “  Nay,  I  would  not  claim 
A  goddess’  venerable  name : 

The  buskins  and  the  bow  I  bear 
Are  but  what  Tyrian  maidens  wear. 

The  Punic  state  is  this  you  see, 

Agenor’s  Tyrian  colony : 

But  all  around  the  Libyans  dwell, 

A  race  in  war  untamed  and  fell. 

The  sceptre  here  queen  Dido  sways. 

Who  fled  from  Tyre  in  other  days, 

To  ’scape  a  brother’s  frenzy:  long 
And  dark  the  story  of  her  wrong; 

To  thread  each  tangle  time  would  fail, 

So  learn  the  summits  of  the  tale. 

Sychseus  was  her  husband  once, 

The  wealthiest  of  Phoenicia’s  sons : 

She  loved  him :  nor  her  sire  denied, 

But  made  her  his,  a  virgin  bride. 

But  soon  there  filled  the  ruler’s  place 
Her  brother,  worst  of  human  race, 
Pygmalion;  ’twixt  the  kinsman  came 
Fierce  hatred,  like  a  withering  flame. 

With  avarice  blind,  by  stealthy  blow 
The  monster  laid  Sychaeus  low, 

E’en  at  the  altar,  recking  nought 
What  passion  in  his  sister  wrought: 


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Long  time  he  hid  the  foul  offence, 

And,  feigning  many  a  base  pretence, 

Beguiled  her  love-sick  innocence. 

But,  as  she  slept,  before  her  eyes 
She  saw  in  pallid  ghastly  guise 
Her  Lord’s  unburied  semblance  rise ; 

The  murderous  altar  he  revealed, 

The  death-wound,  gaping  and  unhealed. 

And  all  the  crime  the  house  concealed: 

Then  bids  her  fly  without  delay, 

And  shows,  to  aid  her  on  her  way, 

His  buried  treasures,  stores  untold 
Of  silver  and  of  massy  gold. 

She  heard,  and,  quickened  by  affright. 

Provides  her  friends  and  means  of  flight. 

Each  malcontent  her  summons  hears, 

Who  hates  the  tyrant,  or  who  fears ; 

The  ships  that  in  the  haven  rode 
They  seize,  and  with  the  treasures  load : 
Pygmalion’s  stores  o’er  ocean  speed. 

And  woman’s  daring  wrought  the  deed. 

The  spot  they  reached  where  now  your  eyes 
See  Carthage-towers  in  beauty  rise : 

There  bought  them  soil,  such  space  of  ground 
As  one  bull’s  hide  could  compass  round ; 

There  fixed  their  site ;  and  Byrsa’s  name 
Preserves  the  action  fresh  in  fame. 

But  who  are  you?  to  whom  allied? 

Whence  bound  and  whither  ?  ”  Deep  he  sighed, 
And  thus  with  laboring  speech  replied : 

“  Fair  Goddess  !  should  thy  suppliants  show 
From  first  to  last  their  tale  of  woe, 

Or  ere  it  ceased  the  day  were  done, 

And  closed  the  palace  of  the  sun. 

We  from  old  Troy,  if  Tyrian  ear 
Have  chanced  the  name  of  Troy  to  hear, 
Driven  o’er  all  seas,  are  thrown  at  last 
On  Libya’s  coast  by  chance-sent  blast. 

Ttneas  I,  who  bear  on  board 
My  home-gods,  rescued  from  the  sword : 


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Men  call  me  good;  and  vulgar  fame 
Above  the  stars  exalts  my  name. 

My  quest  is  Italy,  the  place 
That  nursed  my  Jove-descended  race. 

My  ships  were  twenty  when  I  gave 
My  fortunes  to  the  Phrygian  wave ; 

My  goddess-mother  lent  me  light, 

And  oracles  prescribed  my  flight: 

And  now  scarce  seven  survive  the  strain 
Of  boisterous  wind  and  billowy  main. 

I  wander  o’er  your  Libyan  waste, 

From  Europe  and  from  Asia  chased, 
Unfriended  and  unknown.”  No  more 
His  plaint  of  anguish  Venus  bore, 

But  interrupts  ere  yet  ’tis  o’er : 

“  Whoe’er  you  are,  I  cannot  deem 
Unloved  of  heaven  you  drink  the  beam 
Of  sunlight;  else  had  never  Fate 
Conveyed  you  to  a  Tyrian’s  gate. 

Take  heart  and  follow  on  the  road, 

Still  making  for  the  queen’s  abode. 

You  yet  shall  witness,  mark  my  word, 

Your  friends  returned,  your  fleet  restored ; 

The  winds  are  changed,  and  all  are  brought 
To  port,  or  augury  is  naught, 

And  vain  the  lore  my  parents  taught. 

Mark  those  twelve  swans  that  hold  their  way 
In  seemly  jubilant  array, 

Whom  late,  down  swooping  from  on  high, 
Jove’s  eagle  scattered  through  the  sky: 

Now  see  them  o’er  the  land  extend 
Or  hover,  ready  to  descend : 

They,  rallying,  sport  on  noisy  wing, 

And  circle  round  the  heaven,  and  sing: 

E’en  so  your  ships,  your  martial  train, 

Have  gained  the  port,  or  stand  to  gain. 

Then  pause  not  further,  but  proceed, 

Still  following  where  the  road  shall  lead.” 


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220 


She  turned,  and  flashed  upon  their  view 
Her  stately  neck’s  purpureal  hue ; 

Ambrosial  tresses  round  her  head 
A  more  than  earthly  fragrance  shed; 

Her  falling  robe  her  footprints  swept, 

And  showed  the  goddess  as  she  stept: 

While  he,  at  length  his  mother  known, 

Pursues  her  with  complaining  tone : 

“And  art  thou  cruel  like  the  rest? 

Why  cheat  so  oft  thy  son’s  fond  eyes  ? 

Why  cannot  hand  in  hand  be  pressed, 

And  speech  exchanged  without  disguise  ?  ” 
So  ring  the  words  of  fond  regret 
While  toward  the  town  his  face  is  set. 

But  Venus  either  traveler  shrouds 
With  thickest  panoply  of  clouds, 

That  none  may  see  them,  touch,  nor  stay, 

Nor,  idly  asking,  breed  delay. 

She  through  the  sky  to  Paphos  moves, 

And  seeks  the  temple  of  her  loves, 

Where  from  a  hundred  altars  rise 
Rich  stream  and  flowerets’  odorous  sighs. 

Meantime,  the  path  itself  their  clue, 

With  speed  their  journey  they  pursue; 

And  now  they  climb  the  hill,  whose  frown 
On  the  tall  towers  looks  lowering  down, 

And  beetles  o’er  the  fronting  town. 

SEneas  marvelling  views  the  pile 
Of  stately  structures,  huts  erewhile, 

Marvelling,  the  lofty  gates  surveys. 

The  pavements,  and  the  loud  highways. 

On  press  the  Tyrians,  each  and  all : 

Some  raise  aloft  the  city’s  wall, 

Or  at  the  fortress’  base  of  rock 
Toil,  heaving  up  the  granite  block: 

While  some  for  dwellings  mark  the  ground, 
Select  a  site  and  trench  it  round, 

Or  choose  the  rulers  and  the  law, 

And  the  young  senate  clothe  with  awe. 

They  hollow  out  the  haven ;  they 


PUBLIUS  VERG1LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


230 

The  theatre’s  foundations  lay, 

And  fashion  from  the  quarry’s  side 
Tall  columns,  germs  of  scenic  pride. 

So  bees,  when  spring-time  is  begun, 

Ply  their  warm  labor  in  the  sun, 

What  time  along  the  flowery  mead 
Their  nation’s  infant  hope  they  lead ; 

Or  with  clear  honey  charge  each  cell, 

And  make  the  hive  with  sweetness  swell, 
The  workers  of  their  loads  relieve, 

Or  chase  the  drones  that  gorge  and  thieve : 
With  toil  the  busy  scene  ferments, 

And  fragrance  breathes  from  t'hymy  scents. 
“  O  happy  they,”  SEneas  cries, 

As  to  the  roofs  he  lifts  his  eyes, 

“  Whose  promised  walls  already  rise  !  ” 
Then  enters,  ’neath  his  misty  screen, 

And  threads  the  crowd,  of  all  unseen. 

Midway  within  the  city  stood 
A  spreading  grove  of  hallowed  wood, 

The  spot  where  first  the  Punic  train, 

Fresh  from  the  shock  of  storm  and  main, 

The  token  Juno  had  foretold 

Dug  up,  the  head  of  charger  bold ; 

Sign  of  a  nation  formed  for  strife 
And  born  to  years  of  plenteous  life. 

A  temple  there  began  to  tower 
To  Juno,  rich  with  many  a  dower 
Of  human  wealth  and  heavenly  power, 

The  oblation  of  the  queen : 

Brass  was  the  threshold  of  the  gate, 

The  posts  were  sheathed  with  brazen  plate, 
And  brass  the  valves  between. 

First  in  that  spot  once  more  appears 
A  sight  to  soothe  the  traveler’s  fears, 
Illumes  with  hope  ^Eneas’  eye, 

And  bids  him  trust  his  destiny. 

As,  waiting  for  the  queen,  he  gazed 
Around  the  fane  with  eyes  upraised, 

Much  marvelling  at  a  lot  so  blessed, 


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231 


At  art  by  rival  hands  expressed, 

And  labor’s  mastery  confessed, 

O  wonder  !  there  is  Ilium’s  war, 

And  all  those  battles  blazed  afar : 

Here  stands  Atrides,  Priam  here, 

And  chafed  Achilles,  either’s  fear. 

He  starts:  the  tears  rain  fast  and  hot: 

And  “  Is  there,  friend,”  he  cries,  “  a  spot 
That  knows  not  Troy’s  uphappy  lot? 

See  Priam  !  ay,  praise  waits  on  worth 
E’en  in  this  corner  of  the  earth ; 

E’en  here  the  tear  of  pity  springs, 

And  hearts  are  touched  by  human  things. 
Dismiss  your  fear :  we  sure  may  claim 
To  find  some  safety  in  our  fame.” 

He  said;  and  feeds  his  hungry  heart 
With  shapes  of  unsubstantial  art, 

In  fond  remembrance  groaning  deep, 

While  briny  floods  his  visage  steep. 

There  spreads  and  broadens  on  his  sight 
The  portraiture  of  Greece  in  flight, 

Pressed  by  the  Trojan  youth;  while  here 
Troy  flies,  Achilles  in  her  rear. 

Not  far  removed  with  tears  he  knows 
The  tents  of  Rhesus,  white  as  snows, 

Through  which,  by  sleep’s  first  breath  betrayed, 
Tydides  makes  his  murderous  raid, 

And  camp-ward  drives  the  fiery  brood 

Of  coursers,  ere  on  Trojan  food 

They  browse,  or  drink  of  Xanthus’  flood. 

Here  Troilus,  shield  and  lance  let  go, 

Poor  youth,  Achilles’  ill-matched  foe, 

Fallen  backward  from  the  chariot  seat, 

Whirls  on,  yet  clinging  by  his  feet, 

Still  grasps  the  reins :  his  hair,  his  neck 
Trail  o’er  the  ground  in  helpless  wreck. 

And  the  loose  spear  he  wont  to  wield 
Makes  dusty  scoring  on  the  field. 

Meantime  to  partial  Pallas’  fane 
Moved  with  slow  steps  a  matron  train ; 

With  smitten  breasts,  dishevelled,  pale. 


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Beseechingly  they  bore  the  veil : 

She  motionless  as  stone  remained, 

Her  cruel  eyes  to  earth  enchained. 
Thrice,  to  Achilles’  chariot  bound, 

Had  Hector  circled  Ilium  round, 

And  now  the  satiate  victor  sold 
His  mangled  enemy  for  gold. 

Deep  groaned  the  gazer  to  survey 
The  spoils,  the  arms,  the  lifeless  clay, 
And  Priam,  with  weak  hands  outspread 
In  piteous  pleading  for  the  dead. 

Himself  too  in  the  press  he  knows, 
Mixed  with  the  foremost  line  of  foes, 
And  swarthy  Memnon,  armed  for  war, 
With  followers  from  the  morning  star. 
Penthesilea  leads  afield 
The  sisters  of  the  moony  shield, 

One  naked  breast  conspicuous  shown, 

By  looping  of  her  golden  zone, 

And  burns  with  all  the  battle’s  heat, 

A  maid,  the  shock  of  men  to  meet. 

While  thus  with  passionate  amaze 
PEneas  stood  in  one  set  gaze, 

Queen  Dido  with  a  warrior  train 
In  beauty’s  pride  approached  the  fane. 
As  when  upon  Eurotas’  banks 
Or  Cynthus’  summits  high 
Diana  leads  the  Oread  ranks 
In  choric  revelry, 

Girt  with  her  quiver,  straight  and  tall, 
Though  all  be  gods,  she  towers  o’er  all; 
Latona’s  mild  maternal  eyes 
Beam  with  unspoken  ecstasies : 

So  Dido  looked;  so  ’mid  the  throng 
With  joyous  step  she  moved  along, 

As  pressing  on  to  antedate 

The  birthday  of  her  nascent  state. 

Then,  ’neath  the  temple’s  roofing  shell, 
On  stairs  that  mount  the  inner  cell, 
Throned  on  a  chair  of  queenly  state, 


PUBLIUS  V  ERG  I  LI  US  MARO  VIRGIL 


233 


Hemmed  round  by  glittering  arms,  she  sate. 

Thus  circled  by  religious  awe 

She  gives  the  gathered  people  law, 

By  chance-drawn  lot  or  studious  care 
Assigning  each  his  labor’s  share. 

When  lo !  a  concourse  to  the  fane : 

He  looks :  amid  the  shouting  train 
Lost  Antheus  and  Sergestus  pressed, 

And  brave  Cloanthus,  and  the  rest. 

Driven  by  fierce  gales  the  water  o’er, 

And  landed  on  a  different  shore. 

Astounded  stand  ’twixt  fear  and  joy 
Achates  and  the  chief  of  Troy: 

They  burn  to  hail  them  and  salute, 

But  wildering  wonder  keeps  them  mute. 

So,  peering  through  their  cloudy  screen. 

They  strive  the  broken  tale  to  glean, 

Where  rest  the  vessels  and  the  crew, 

And  wherefore  thus  they  come  to  sue : 

For  every  ship  her  chief  had  sent, 

And  clamoring  towards  the  fane  they  went. 

Then,  audience  granted  by  the  queen, 
Ilioneus  spoke  with  placed  mien : 

“  Lady,  whom  gracious  Jove  has  willed 
A  city  in  the  waste  to  build, 

And  minds  of  savage  temper  school 
By  justice’  humanizing  rule, 

We,  tempest-tost  on  every  wave, 

Poor  Trojans,  your  compassion  crave 
From  hideous  flame  our  barks  to  save: 
Commiserate  our  wretched  case. 

And  war  not  on  a  pious  race. 

We  come  not,  we,  to  spoil  and  slay 
Your  Libyan  households,  sweep  the  prey 
Off  to  the  shore,  then  haste  away: 

Meek  grows  the  heart  by  misery  cowed. 

And  vanquished  souls  are  not  so  proud. 

A  land  there  is,  by  Greece  of  old 
Known  as  Hesperia,  rich  its  mould, 

Its  children  brave  and  free : 


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PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


(Enotrians  were  its  planters:  Fame 
Now  gives  the  race  their  leader’s  name, 

And  calls  it  Italy. 

There  lay  our  course,  when,  grief  to  tell, 
Orion,  rising  with  a  swell, 

Hurled  us  on  shoals,  and  scattered  wide 
O’er  pathless  rocks  along  the  tide 
’Mid  swirling  billows :  thence  our  crew 
Drifts  to  your  coast,  a  rescued  few. 

What  tribe  of  human  kind  is  here? 

What  barbarous  region  yields  such  cheer? 
E’en  the  cold  welcome  of  the  sand 
To  travelers  is  barred  and  banned: 

Ere  earth  we  touch,  they  draw  the  sword. 
And  drive  us  from  the  bare  sea-board. 

If  men  and  mortal  arms  ye  slight, 

Know  there  are  Gods  who  watch  o’er  right. 

SEneas  was  our  king,  than  who 

The  breath  of  being  none  e’er  drew, 

More  brave,  more  pious,  or  more  true : 

If  he  still  looks  upon  the  sun, 

No  spectre  yet,  our  fears  are  done, 

Nor  need  you  doubt  to  assume  the  lead 
In  rivalry  of  generous  deed. 

Sicilia  too,  no  niggard  field, 

Has  towns  to  hold  us,  arms  to  shield, 

And  king  Acestes,  brave  and  good, 

In  heart  a  Trojan,  as  in  blood. 

Give  leave  to  draw  our  ships  ashore, 

There  smooth  the  plank  and  shape  the  oar : 
So,  should  our  friends,  our  king  survive, 

For  Italy  we  yet  may  strive: 

But  if  our  hopes  are  quenched,  and  thee, 

Best  father  of  the  sons  of  Troy, 

Death  hides  beneath  the  Libyan  sea, 

Nor  spares  to  us  thy  princely  boy, 

Yet  may  we  seek  Sicania’s  land, 

Her  mansions  ready  to  our  hand, 

And  dwell  where  we  were  guests  so  late, 

The  subjects  of  Acestes’  state.” 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


235 


So  spoke  Ilioneus :  and  the  rest 
With  shouts  their  loud  assent  expressed. 

Then,  looking  downward,  Dido  said : 
“Discharge  you,  Trojans,  of  your  dread: 

An  infant  realm  and  fortune  hard 
Compel  me  thus  my  shores  to  guard. 

Who  knows  not  of  ^Eneas’  name, 

Of  Troy,  her  fortune  and  her  fame, 

And  that  devouring  war  ? 

Our  Punic  breasts  have  more  of  fire, 

Nor  all  so  retrograde  from  Tyre 
Doth  Phoebus  yoke  his  car. 

Whate’er  your  choice,  the  Hesperian  plain, 
Or  Eryx  and  Acestes’  reign, 

My  arms  shall  guard  you  in  your  way, 

My  treasuries  your  needs  purvey. 

Or  would  a  home  on  Libya’s  shores 
Allure  you  more?  this  town  is  yours: 

Lay  up  your  vessels:  Tyre  and  Troy 
Alike  shall  Dido’s  thoughts  employ. 

And  would  we  had  your  monarch  too. 

Driven  hither  by  the  blast,  like  you, 

The  great  Htneas  !  I  will  send 
And  search  the  coast  from  end  to  end, 

If  haply,  wandering  up  and  down, 

He  bide  in  woodland  or  in  town.” 

In  breathless  eagerness  of  joy 
Achates  and  the  chief  of  Troy 
Were  yearning  long  the  cloud  to  burst: 

And  thus  Achates  spoke  the  first: 

“  What  now,  my  chief,  the  thoughts  that  rise 
Within  you?  see,  before  your  eyes 
Your  fleet,  your  friends  restored ; 

Save  one,  who  sank  beneath  the  tide 
E’en  in  our  presence:  all  beside 
Confirms  your  mother’s  word.” 

Scarce  had  he  said,  the  mist  gives  way 
And  purges  brightening  into  day; 


236  PUBLIUS  VERG1LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


^Eneas  stood,  to  sight  confest, 

A  very  God  in  face  and  chest : 

For  Venus  round  her  darling’s  head 
A  length  of  clustering  locks  had  spread, 
Crowned  him  with  youth’s  purpureal  light, 
And  made  his  eyes  gleam  glad  and  bright: 
Such  loveliness  the  hands  of  art 
To  ivory’s  native  hues  impart: 

So  ’mid  the  gold  around  it  placed 
Shines  silver  pale  or  marble  chaste. 

Then  in  a  moment,  unforeseen 
Of  all,  he  thus  bespeaks  the  queen: 

“  Lo,  him  you  ask  for !  I  am  he, 

Aeneas,  saved  from  Libya’s  sea. 

O,  only  heart  that  deigns  to  mourn 
For  Ilium’s  cruel  care! 

That  bids  e’en  us,  poor  relics,  torn 
From  Danaan  fury,  all  outworn 
By  earth  and  ocean,  all  forlorn. 

Its  home,  its  city  share ! 

We  cannot  thank  you;  no,  nor  they, 

Our  brethren  of  the  Dardan  race, 

Who,  driven  from  their  ancestral  place. 
Throughout  the  wide  world  stray. 

May  Heaven,  if  virtue  claim  its  thought, 

If  justice  yet  avail  for  aught, 

Heaven,  and  the  sense  of  conscious  right, 
With  worthier  meed  your  acts  requite ! 
What  happy  ages  gave  you  birth  ? 

What  glorious  sires  begat  such  worth? 

While  rivers  run  into  the  deep, 

While  shadows  o’er  the  hillside  sweep, 
While  stars  in  heaven’s  fair  pasture  graze, 
Shall  live  your  honor,  name,  and  praise, 
Whate’er  my  destined  home.”  He  ends, 
And  turns  him  to  his  Trojan  friends; 
Ilioneus  with  his  right  hand  greets, 

And  with  the  left  Serestus  meets ; 

Then  to  the  rest  like  welcome  gave, 

Brave  Gyas  and  Cloanthus  brave. 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


237 


Thus  as  she  listened,  first  his  mien, 

His  sorrow  next,  entranced  the  queen, 
And  “  Say,”  cries  she,  “  what  cruel  wrong 
Pursued  you,  goddess-born,  so  long? 
What  violence  has  your  navy  driven 
On  this  rude  coast,  of  all  ’neath  heaven? 
And  are  you  he,  on  Simois’  shore 
Whom  Venus  to  Anchises  bore, 

^Tineas?  Well  I  mind  the  name, 

Since  Teucer  first  to  Sidon  came, 

Driven  from  his  home,  in  hope  to  gain 
By  Belus’  aid  another  reign, 

What  time  my  father  ruled  the  land 
Of  Cyprus  with  a  conqueror’s  hand. 

Then  first  the  fall  of  Troy  I  knew, 

And  heard  of  Grecia’s  kings,  and  you. 
Oft,  I  remember,  would  he  glow 
In  praise  of  Troy,  albeit  her  foe; 

Oft  would  he  boast,  with  generous  pride, 
Himself  to  Troy’s  old  line  allied. 

Then  enter,  chiefs,  these  friendly  doors ; 

I  too  have  had  my  fate,  like  yours, 
Which,  many  a  suffering  overpast, 

Has  willed  to  fix  me  here  at  last. 

Myself  not  ignorant  of  woe, 

Compassion  I  have  learned  to  show.” 

She  speaks,  and  speaking  leads  the  way 
To  where  her  palace  stands, 

And  through  the  fanes  a  solemn  day 
Of  sacrifice  commands. 

Nor  yet  unmindful  of  his  friends, 

Her  bounty  to  the  shore  she  sends, 

A  hundred  bristly  swine, 

A  herd  of  twenty  beeves,  of  lambs 
A  hundred,  with  their  fleecy  dams, 

And  spirit-cheering  wine. 

And  now  the  palace  they  array 
With  all  the  state  that  kings  display, 

And  through  the  central  breadth  of  hall 
Prepare  the  sumptuous  festival : 


PUBLIUS  V  ERG  l  LI  US  MARO  VIRGIL 


238 

! 

There,  wrought  with  many  a  fair  design, 

Rich  coverlets  of  purple  shine : 

Bright  silver  loads  hie  boards,  and  gold 
Where  deeds  of  hero-sires  are  told, 

From  chief  to  chief  in  sequence  drawn, 

E’en  from  proud  Sidon’s  earliest  dawn. 

Meantime  ^Eneas,  loth  to  lose 
The  father  in  the  king, 

Sends  down  Achates  to  his  crews : 

“  Haste,  to  Ascanius  bear  the  news, 

Himself  to  Carthage  bring.” 

A  father’s  care,  a  father’s  joy, 

All  centre  in  the  darling  boy. 

Rich  presents  too  he  bids  be  brought, 

Scarce  saved  when  Troy’s  last  fight  was  fought, 
A  pall  with  stiffening  gold  inwrought, 

A  veil,  the  marvel  of  the  loom, 

Edged  with  acanthus’  saffron  bloom 
These  Leda  once  to  Helen  gave, 

And  Helen  from  Mycenae  bore, 

What  time  to  Troy  she  crossed  the  wave 
With  that  her  unblessed  paramour; 

The  sceptre  Priam’s  eldest  fair, 

Ilione,  was  wont  to  bear; 

Her  necklace,  and  her  coronet 
With  gold  and  ge  *s  in  circle  set. 

Such  mandate  hastening  to  obey, 

Achates  takes  his  shore-ward  way. 

But  Cytherea’s  anxious  mind 
New  arts,  new  stratagems  designe„, 

That  Cupid,  changed  in  mien  and  face. 

Should  come  in  sweet  Ascanius’  place, 

Fire  with  his  gifts  the  royal  dame, 

And  thread  each  leaping  vein  with  flame. 

The  palace  of  deceit  she  fears, 

The  double  tongues  of  Tyre ; 

Fell  Juno’s  form  at  night  appears, 

And  burns  her  like  a  fire. 

So  to  her  will  she  seeks  to  move 


Publius  vercilius  maro  virgil 


239 


The  winged  deity  of  Love : 

“  My  son,  my  strength,  my  virtue  born, 

Who  laugh’st  Jove’s  Titan  bolts  to  scorn, 

To  thee  for  succor  I  repair, 

And  breathe  the  voice  of  suppliant  prayer. 
How  Juno  (drives  from  coast  to  coast 
Thy  Trojan  brother,  this  thou  know’st, 

And  oft  hast  bid  thy  sorrows  flow 
With  mine  in  pity  of  his  woe. 

Him  now  this  Tyrian  entertains, 

And  with  soft  speech  his  stay  constrains: 
But  I,  I  cannot  brook  with  ease 
Junonian  hospitalities ; 

Nor,  where  our  fortunes  hinge  and  turn, 

Can  she  long  rest  in  unconcern. 

Fain  would  I  first  ensnare  the  dame, 

And  wrap  her  leagured  heart  in  flame ; 

So,  ere  she  change  by  power  malign, 

/Eneas’  love  shall  bind  her  mine. 

Such  triumph  how  thou  mayst  achieve. 

The  issue  of  my  thought  receive. 

To  Sidon’s  town  the  princely  heir, 

The  darling  motive  of  my  care, 

Sets  out  at  summons  of  his  sire, 

With  presents,  saved  from  flood  and  fire. 
Him,  in  the  bands  of  slumber  tied, 

In  high  Cythera  I  will  hide. 

Or  blest  Idalia,  safe  and  far, 

Lest  he  perceive  the  plot,  or  mar. 

Thou  for  one  night  supply  his  room, 
Thyself  a  boy,  the  boy  assume ; 

That  when  the  queen,  with  rapture  glowing, 
While  boards  blaze  rich,  and  wine  is  flowing, 
Shall  make  thee  nestle  in  her  breast. 

And  to  thy  lips  her  lips  are  prest, 

The  stealthy  plague  thou  mayst  inspire, 

And  thrill  her  with  contagious  fire.” 

Young  Love  obeyed,  his  plumage  stripped, 
And,  laughing,  like  lulus  tripped. 

But  Venus  on  her  grandson  strows 


24-0 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


The  dewy  softness  of  repose, 

And  laps  him  in  her  robe,  and  bears 
To  tall  Idalia’s  fragrant  airs, 

Where  soft  amaracus  receives 
And  gently  curtains  him  with  leaves: 

While  Cupid,  tutored  to  obey, 

Beside  Achates  takes  his  way, 

And  bears  the  presents,  blithe  and  gay. 
Arrived,  he  finds  the  Tyrian  queen 
On  tapestry  laid  of  gorgeous  sheen, 

In  central  place,  her  guests  between. 

There  lies  iEneas,  there  his  train, 

All  stretched  at  ease  on  purple  grain. 

Slaves  o’er  their  hands  clear  water  pour, 
Deal  round  the  bread  from  basket-store, 

And  napkins  thick  with  wool : 

Within  full  fifty  maids  supply 

Fresh  food,  and  make  the  hearths  blaze  high: 

A  hundred  more  of  equal  age, 

Each  with  her  fellow,  girl  and  page. 

Serve  to  the  gathered  company 
The  meats  and  goblets  full. 

The  invited  Tyrians  throng  the  hall, 

And  on  the  broidered  couches  fall. 

They  marvel  as  the  gifts  they  view, 

They  marvel  at  the  bringer  too, 

The  features  where  the  God  shines  through, 
The  tones  his  mimic  voice  assumes, 

The  pall,  the  veil  with  saffron  blooms. 

But  chiefly  Dido,  doomed  to  ill. 

Her  soul  with  gazing  cannot  fill, 

And,  kindling  with  delirious  fires, 

Admires  the  boy,  the  gift  admires. 

He,  having  hung  a  little  space 
Clasped  in  fEneas’  warm  embrace, 

And  satisfied  the  fond  desire 
Of  that  his  counterfeited  sire, 

Turns  him  to  Dido.  Heart  and  eye 
She  clings,  she  cleaves,  she  makes  him  lie 
Lapped  in  her  breast,  nor  knows,  lost  fair, 
How  dire  a  God  sits  heavy  there. 


PUBLIUS  V  ERG  I  LI  US  MARO  VIRGIL 


But  lie,  too  studious  to  fulfill 
His  Acidalian  mother’s  will, 

Begins  to  cancel  trace  by  trace 
The  imprint  of  Sychseus’  face, 

And  bids  a  living  passion  steal 
On  senses  long  unused  to  feel. 

Soon  as  the  feast  begins  to  lull, 

And  boards  are  cleared  away, 

They  place  the  bowls,  all  brimming  full, 

And  wreathe  with  garlands  gay. 

Up  to  the  rafters  mounts  the  din, 

And  voices  swell  and  heave  within  : 

From  the  gilt  roof  hang  cressets  bright, 

And  flambeau-fires  put  out  the  night. 

The  queen  gives  charge :  a  cup  is  brought 
With  massy  gold  and  jewels  wrought, 

Whence  ancient  Belus  quaffed  his  wine, 

And  all  the  kings  of  Belus’  line. 

Then  silence  reigns :  “  Great  Jove,  who  know’st 

The  mutual  rights  of  guest  and  host, 

O  make  this  day  a  day  of  joy 
Alike  to  Tyre  and  wandering  Troy, 

And  may  our  children’s  children  feel 
The  blessing  of  the  bond  we  seal ! 

Be  Bacchus,  giver  of  glad  cheer, 

And  bounteous  Juno,  present  here  ! 

And,  Tyrians,  you  with  frank  good-will, 

Our  courteous  purposes  fulfil.” 

She  spoke,  and  on  the  festal  board 
The  meed  of  due  libation  poured, 

Touched  with  her  lip  the  goblet's  edge, 

Then  challenged  Bitias  to  the  pledge. 

He  grasped  the  cup  with  eager  hold, 

And  drenched  him  with  the  foaming  gold. 

The  rest  succeed.  Iopas  takes 
His  gilded  lyre,  its  chords  awakes, 

The  long-haired  bard,  rehearsing  sweet 
The  descant  learned  at  Atlas’  feet. 

He  sings  the  wanderings  of  the  moon, 

The  sun  eclipsed  in  deathly  swoon, 

Vol.  XXIII.— 16 


242 


PUBLIUS  V ERG  1  LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


Whence  humankind  and  cattle  came, 

And  whence  the  rain-spout  and  the  flame, 

Arcturus  and  the  two  bright  Bears, 

And  Hyads  weeping  showery  tears, 

Why  winter  suns  so  swiftly  go, 

And  why  the  weary  nights  move  slow. 

With  plaudits  Tyre  the  minstrel  greets, 

And  Troy  the  loud  acclaim  repeats. 

And  now  discourse  succeeds  to  song: 

Poor  Dido  makes  the  gay  night  long, 

Still  drinking  love-draughts,  deep  and  strong: 

Much  of  great  Priam  asks  the  dame, 

Much  of  his  greater  son : 

Now  of  Tydides’  steeds  of  flame, 

Now  in  what  armor  Memnon  came, 

Now  how  Achilles  shone. 

“  Nay,  guest,”  she  cries,  “  vouchsafe  a  space 
The  tale  of  Danaan  fraud  to  trace, 

The  dire  misfortunes  of  your  race, 

These  wanderings  of  your  own : 

For  since  you  first  ’gan  wander  o’er 
Yon  homeless  world  of  sea  and  shore, 

Seven  summers  nigh  have  flown.” 

—  The  AEneid,  Book  I. 

2ENEAS  DOTH  MANY  GREAT  DEEDS  IN  BATTLE. 

No  dull  delay  holds  Turnus  back;  but  fiercely  doth  he  fall 
With  all  his  host,  on  them  of  Troy,  and  meets  them  on  the 
strand. 

The  war-horns  sing.  SEneas  first  breaks  through  the 
field-folks’  band, 

Fair  omen  of  the  fight  —  and  lays  the  Latin  folk  alow. 
Thero  he  slays  most  huge  of  men,  whose  own  heart  bade 
him  go 

Against  SEneas :  through  the  links  of  brass  the  sword  doth 
fare, 

And  through  the  kirtle’s  scaly  gold,  and  wastes  the  side 
laid  bare. 

Then  Lichas  smites  he,  ripped  erewhile  from  out  his 
mother  dead. 


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243 


And  hallowed,  Phoebus,  unto  thee,  because  his  baby  head 

Had  ’scaped  the  steel :  nor  far  from  thence  he  casteth 
down  to  die 

Hard  Cissens,  Gyas  huge,  who  there  beat  down  his  com-' 
pany 

With  might  of  clubs ;  naught  then  availed  that  Plerculean 
gear, 

Nor  their  stark  hands,  nor  yet  their  sire  Melampus, 
though  he  were 

Alcides’  friend  so  long  as  he  on  earth  wrought  heavy  toil. 

Lo,  Pharo !  while  a  deedless  word  lie  flingeth  ’mid  the 
broil, 

The  whirring  of  the  javelin  stays  within  his  shouting 
mouth. 

Thou,  Cydon,  following  lucklessly  thy  new  delight,  the 
youth 

Clytius,  whose  first  of  fallow  down  about  his  cheeks  is 
spread, 

Art  well-nigh  felled  by  Dardan  hand,  and  there  hadst 
thou  lain  dead, 

At  peace  from  all  the  many  loves  wherein  thy  life  would 
stray, 

Had  not  thy  brethren’s  serried  band  now  thrust  across 
the  way, 

E’en  Phorcus’  seed :  sevenfold  of  tale  and  sevenfold  spears 
they  wield ; 

But  some  thereof  fly  harmless  back  from  helmside  and 
from  shield; 

The  rest  kind  Venus  turned  aside,  that  grazing  past  they 
flew ; 

But  therewithal  ^Eneas  spake  unto  Achates  true. 

—  The  TEneid,  Book  X. 

THE  UNDERWORLD. 

Facing  the  porch  itself,  in  the  jaws  of  the  gate  of  the 
dead, 

Grief,  and  Remorse  the  Avenger,  have  built  their  terrible 
bed. 

There  dwells  pale-cheeked  Sickness,  and  Old  Age  sor¬ 
rowful-eyed. 


244 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


Fear,  and  the  temptress  Famine,  and  hideous  Want  at  her 
side, 

Grim  and  tremendous  shapes.  There  Death  with  Labor 
is  joined, 

Sleep,  half-brother  of  Death,  and  the  Joys  unclean  of  the 
mind. 

Murderous  Battle  is  camped  on  the  threshold.  Fronting 

The  iron  cell  of  the  Furies,  and  frenzied  Strife,  evermore 
the  door 

Wreathing  her  serpent  tresses  with  garlands  dabbled  in 
gore. 

Thick  with  gloom,  an  enormous  elm  in  the  midst  of  the 
way 

Spreads  its  time-worn  branches  and  limbs ;  false  Dreams, 
we  are  told, 

Make  their  abode  thereunder,  and  nestle  to  every  spray. 

Many  and  various  monsters,  withal,  wild  things  to  behold, 

Lie  in  the  gateway  stabled  —  the  awful  Centaurs  of  old; 

Scyllas  with  forms  half-human;  and  there  with  his  hun¬ 
dred  hands 

Dwells  Briareus;  and  the  shapeless  ITydra  of  Lerna’s 
lands, 

Horribly  yelling;  in  flaming  mail  the  Chimaera  arrayed; 

Gorgons  and  Harpies,  and  one  three-bodied  and  terrible 
Shade. 

Clasping  his  sword,  zEneas  in  sudden  panic  of  fear 

Points  its  blade  at  the  legion ;  and  had  not  the  Heaven- 
taught  seer 

Warned  him  the  phantoms  are  thin  apparitions,  clothed 
m  a  vain 

Semblance  of  form,  but  in  substance  a  fluttering,  bodiless 
train, 

Idly  his  weapon  had  slashed  the  advancing  shadows  in 
twain. 

Here  is  the  path  to  the  river  of  Acheron,  ever  by  mud 

Clouded,  forever  seething  with  wild,  insatiated  flood 

Downward,  and  into  Cocytus  disgorging  its  endless  sands. 

Sentinel  over  its  waters  an  awful  ferryman  stands, 


PUBLIUS  VERGILIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


245 


Charon,  grisly  and  rugged ;  a  growth  of  centuries  lies 
Hoary  and  rough  on  his  chin ;  as  a  flaming  furnace  his 
eyes. 

Hung  in  a  loop  from  his  shoulders  a  foul  scarf  round  him 
he  ties ; 

Now  with  his  pole  impelling  the  boat,  now  trimming  the 
sail, 

Urging  his  steel-gray  bark  with  its  burden  of  corpses  pale. 
Aged  in  years,  but  a  god’s  old  age  is  unwithered  and  hale. 

Down  to  the  bank  of  the  river  the  streaming  shadows 
repair, 

Mothers,  and  men,  and  the  lifeless  bodies  of  those  who 
were 

Generous  heroes,  boys  that  are  beardless,  maiden-s  unwed, 
Youths  to  the  death  pile  carried  before  their  fathers  were 
dead. 

Many  as  forest  leaves  that  in  autumn’s  earliest  frost 
Flutter  and  fall,  or  as  birds  in  bevies  flock  to  the  coast 
Over  the  sea’s  deep  hollows,  when  winter  chilly  and  frore. 
Drives  them  across  far  waters  to  land  on  a  sunnier  shore. 
Yonder  they  stood,  each  praying  for  earliest  passage,  and 
each 

Eagerly  straining  his  hands  in  desire  of  the  opposite 
beach. 

Such  as  he  lists  to  the  vessel  the  boatman  gloomy  receives, 
Far  from  the  sands  of  the  river  the  rest  he  chases  and 
leaves. 

Moved  at  the  wild  uproar,  Aineas,  with  riveted  eyes : 

“  Why  thus  crowd  to  the  water  the  shadows,  priestess  ?  ” 
he  cries; 

“  What  do  the  spirits  desire  ?  And  why  go  some  from 
the  shore 

Sadly  away,  while  others  are  ferried  the  dark  stream 
o’er?” 

Briefly  the  aged  priestess  again  made  answer  and  spake : 

Son  of  Anchises,  sprung  most  surely  from  gods  upon 
high, 

Yon  is  the  deep  Cocytus  marsh,  and  the  Stygian  lake. 


246 


PUBLIUS  VERG1LIUS  MARO  VIRGIL 


Even  the  Immortals  fear  to  attest  its  presence  and  lie ! 

These  are  a  multitude  helpless,  of  spirits  lacking  a  grave; 

Charon,  the  ferryman ;  yonder  the  buried,  crossing  the 
wave. 

Over  the  awful  banks  and  the  hoarse-voiced  torrents  of 
doom 

None  may  be  taken  before  their  bones  find  rest  in  a  tomb. 

Hundreds  of  years  they  wander,  and  flit  round  river  and 
shore, 

Then  to  the  lake  they  long  for  are  free  to  return  once 
more.” 

,  .  .  Feasting  his  eyes  on  the  wand  of  the  Fates, 

Mighty  oblation,  unseen  for  unnumbered  summers  before, 

Charon  advances  his  dark-blue  bows,  and  approaches  the 
shore ; 

Summons  the  rest  of  the  spirits  in  row  on  the  benches 
who  sate 

Place  to  resign  for  the  comers,  his  gangway  clears,  and 
on  board 

Takes  ^Eneas.  The  cobbled  boat  groans  under  his  weight. 

Water  in  streams  from  the  marshes  through  every  fissure 
is  poured. 

Priestess  and  hero  safely  across  Death’s  river  are  passed, 

Land  upon  mud  unsightly,  and  pale  marsh  sedges,  at  last. 

Here  huge  Cerberus  bays  with  his  triple  paws  through  the 
land, 

Crouched  at  enormous  length  in  his  cavern  facing  the 
strand. 

Soon  as  the  Sibyl  noted  his  hair  now  bristling  with  snakes, 

Morsels  she  flings  him  of  meal,  and  of  honeyed  opiate 
cakes. 

Maddened  with  fury  of  famine  his  three  great  throats  un¬ 
close  ; 

Fiercely  he  snatches  the  viand,  his  monstrous  limbs  in 
repose 

Loosens,  and,  prostrate  laid,  sprawls  measureless  over  his 
den. 

While  the  custodian  sleeps,  iEneas  the  entrance  takes, 


247 


EUGENE  MELCHIOR  DE  VOGUE 

Speeds  from  the  bank  of  a  stream  no  traveller  crosses 
again. 

Voices  they  heard,  and  an  infinite  wailing,  as  onward  they 
bore, 

Spirits  of  infinite  sobbing  at  Death’s  immediate  door, 

Whom,  at  a  mother’s  bosom,  and  strangers  to  life’s  sweet 
breath, 

Fate’s  dark  day  took  from  us,  and  drowned  in  untimeliest 
death. 

Near  them  are  those  who,  falsely  accused,  died  guiltless, 
although 

Not  without  trial,  or  verdict  given,  do  they  enter  below; 

Here,  with  his  urn,  sits  Minos  the  judge,  convenes  from 
within 

Silent  ghosts  to  the  council,  and  learns  each  life  and  its 
sin. 

Near  them  inhabit  the  sorrowing  souls,  whose  innocent 
hands 

Wrought  on  themselves  their  ruin,  and  strewed  their  lives 
on  the  sands. 

Hating  the  glorious  sunlight.  Alas !  how  willingly  they 

Now  would  endure  keen  want,  hard  toil,  in  the  regions  of 
day ! 

Fate  forbids  it;  the  loveless  lake  with  its  waters  of  woe 

Holds  them,  and  nine  times  round  them  entwined,  Styx 
bars  them  below. 

—  The  TEneid ,  Book  VI. 


Eugene  Marie  Melchior,  Vicomte  de, 
a  French  critic  and  historian;  born  at  Nice, 
fVAA  February  25,  1848.  After  having  served  in 
the  army  during  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  he  entered 
the  office  of  the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs  in  1871, 
and  was  attached  to  the  embassy  at  Constantinople  in 
1873,  t0  the  French  Mission  in  Egypt  in  1875,  and  to 


248 


EUGENE  MELCHIOR  DE  VOGUE 


the  embassy  at  St.  Petersburg  in  1876.  While  at  the 
Winter  Palace  he  married,  in  1878,  the  daughter  of 
the  Russian  general,  Annenkoff.  He  retired  from  the 
diplomatic  service  in  1881,  and  thereafter  devoted 
himself  to  literature,  writing  much  in  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  and  the  Journal  des  Debates.  He  be¬ 
came  a  Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  1879, 
and  was  elected  a  member  of  the  French  Academy 
in  1888.  His  works  in  book  form  include  Syrie,  Pales¬ 
tine ,  Mont  Athos,  Voyage  au  Pays  du  Passe  (1876)  ; 
Histoires  Orientates,  Chez  les  Pharaons,  Boulacq  et 
Saqquarah  (1879)  ;  Les  Portraits  due  Siecle  (1883)  ; 
Le  Fils  de  Pierre  le  Grand  (1884)  ;  Mazeppa  (1884)  ; 
Un  Changement  due  Regne  (1884)  ;  Histoires  d’Hiver 
(1885)  ;  Le  Roman  Russe  (1886)  ;  Souvenirs  et  Vis¬ 
ions  (1887);  Le  Portrait  du  Louvre  (1888);  Re¬ 
marques  sur  r Exposition  Centenaire  (1889)  ;  Le  Man- 
teau  de  Joseph  Olenine  (1890)  ;  Heures  d’Histoire 

(1893)- 

THE  HYMN  OF  THE  GERMANS. 

(September  1,  1870.) 

The  bivouacs  of  the  victors  starred  with  their  fires  all 
the  valley  of  the  Moselle.  From  the  fields  where  those 
hundred  thousand  men  were  encamped,  and  where  we 
thought  them  heavy  with  sleep,  exhausted  by  their  vic¬ 
tory,  a  mighty  voice  arose  —  one  single  voice  issuing  from 
those  hundred  thousand  throats.  It  was  Luthers’  choral. 
The  majestic  prayer  seemed  to  fill  the  heavens;  it  spread 
over  the  horizon  so  far  as  there  were  German  camp-fires 
and  German  men.  We  heard  it  far  into  the  night.  It 
thrilled  us  with  its  grandeur  and  beauty.  Many  of  us 
were  young  then,  and  little  matured  in  reflection,  yet  we 
recognized  at  that  moment  the  power  which  had  van¬ 
quished  us :  it  was  not  the  superior  force  of  regiments,  but 
that  one  soul,  made  up  of  so  many  souls,  tempered  in 
faith,  national  and  divine,  and  firmly  persuaded  that  its 


EUGENE  MELCHIOR  DE  VOGUE 


249 


God  marched  by  its  side  to  victory. —  Translation  of 
Aline  Gorren. 


POPE  LEO  XIII. 

The  visitor  is  admitted  in  his  turn  into  a  small  salon 
draped  with  yellow  silk ;  a  crucifix  hangs  upon  the  wall ; 
several  chairs  are  ranged  along  the  two  sides  of  the  room ; 
at  the  back,  beneath  a  canopy  of  crimson  damask,  a  pale, 
white  form  is  seated  on  a  gilded  chair.  It  is  the  embod¬ 
iment  of  the  spirit  which  animates  all  the  spiritual  gov¬ 
ernors  spread  over  the  planet;  which  unceasingly  follows 
them  to  each  inquietude,  to  all  the  sufferings  whose  dis¬ 
tant  plaint  reaches  his  ear.  So  slight,  so  frail;  like  a  soul 
draped  in  a  white  shroud  !  And  yet,  as  one  approaches 
him,  this  incorporeal  being,  who  appeared  so  feeble  when 
seen  standing  at  the  services  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  as¬ 
sumes  an  extraordinary  intensity  of  existence.  All  the 
life  has  centred  in  the  hands  grasping  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  in  the  piercing  eyes,  in  the  warmth  and  strength  of 
the  voice.  Seated  and  animated  in  conversation,  Leo  XIII 
seems  twenty  years  younger.  He  talks  freely,  easily ;  he 
questions  the  speaker  by  word  and  look;  eager  for  details 
of  the  country  under  discussion,  of  its  prominent  men,  of 
public  opinion.  The  Pope  does  not  linger  over  the  pueril¬ 
ities  of  piety;  he  introduces  at  once  the  serious  problems 
of  human  existence,  real  and  vital  interests.  Soon  he 
grows  animated  in  developing  his  favorite  topics ;  pre¬ 
senting  them  with  a  few  sweeping  sentences,  clear,  con¬ 
cise,  acceptable  to  all.  “  We  must  go  to  the  people, 
conquer  the  hearts  of  the  people.  We  must  seek  the 
alliance  of  all  honest  folk,  whatsoever  their  origin  or 
opinion.  We  must  not  lose  heart.  We  will  triumph  over 
prejudice,  injustice,  and  error.”  It  is  impossible  to  forget 
the  look,  the  gesture,  the  ring  of  the  voice,  with  which  he 
follows  you,  as  you  retire  backward,  your  fingers  already 
grasping  the  door-knob;  his  hand  extended  with  a  sudden 
propelling  of  the  whole  body  from  the  chair;  the  inflec¬ 
tion  of  those  last  words  which  linger  in  the  ear  of  the 
visitor  returning  to  his  own  land :  “  Courage  !  Work ! 
Come  back  to  see  me  again!  ” — From  The  Forum. 


250  CLAUDE-HENR1  FUSEE  DE  V01SEN0N 


0ISEN0N,  Claude-Henri  Fusee  de,  a  French 
dramatist;  born  at  Voisenon,  June  8,  1708; 
died  there,  November  22,  1775.  Brought  up 
to  the  ecclesiastical  profession,  he  began  with  being 
grand-vicar  to  the  see  of  Boulogne ;  but  having  fought 
a  duel  with  an  officer,  and  feeling  himself  in  other  re-# 
spects  little  fitted  for  the  clerical  function,  he  limited 
himself  to  the  abbacy  of  Jard,  and  became  a  man  of 
the  world  and  a  writer  for  the  stage.  In  the  midst  of 
his  dissolute  life  he  was  haunted  incessantly  with  re¬ 
ligious  scruples.  His  naturally  weak  constitution  at 
last  broke  down  under  his  libertine  indulgences ;  and, 
apprehensive  of  death,  he  made  a  general  confession, 
but  his  confessor  refused  him  absolution.  Upon 
promise  of  amendment  of  life,  however,  he  was  after¬ 
ward  absolved ;  and  then  began  a  strange  contrast  of 
ceremonial  devotion  with  equally  regular  dissipation. 
He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  in  1762. 
His  works  consist  of  several  romances,  the  best  of 
which  is  L’Histoire  de  la  F elicit e ;  a  number  of  com¬ 
edies,  notably  Maria ges  Assortis  and  La  Coquette 
Fixee,  and  some  poems.  His  CEuvres  Completes  were 
published  by  Madame  de  Turpin,  in  five  large  vol¬ 
umes  ;  and  Laharpe  made  from  them  an  excellent  se¬ 
lection  in  one  small  volume.  Voisenon’s  letters  to  his 
friends  give  vivid  descriptions  of  French  life  and 
manners  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

TRAVELING  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

We  passed  through  Tours  yesterday,  where  Madame  la 
Duchesse  de  Choiseul  received  all  the  honors  due  to  the 
gouVernante  of  the  province.  We  entered  by  the  mall, 
which  is  planted  with  trees  as  beautiful  as  those  of  the 


'CLAU DE-HEN Rl  FI  SEE  DE  VOISENON  251 


Parisian  boulevards.  Here  was  found  a  mayor,  who 
came  to  harangue  the  duchess.  It  happened  that  M.  Sain- 
frais,  during  the  harangue,  had  posted  himself  directly 
behind  the  speaker,  so  that  every  now  and  then  his  horse, 
which  kept  constantly  tossing  its  head,  as  horses  will  do, 
would  give  him  a  little  tap  on  the  back  —  a  circumstance 
which  cut  his  phrases  in  half  in  the  most  ludicrous  man¬ 
ner  possible;  because  at  every  blow  the  orator  would  turn 
round  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  after  which  he  would 
gravely  resume  his  discourse,  while  I  was  ready  to  burst 
with  laughter  the  whole  time. 

Two  leagues  further  on  we  had  another  rich  scene.  An 
ecclesiastic  stopped  the  carriage  and  commenced  a  pom¬ 
pous  harangue  to  M.  Poisonnier,  whom  he  kept  calling 
“Mon  Prince.”  M.  Poisonnier  replied,  that  he  was  more 
than  a  prince,  and  that  in  fact  the  lives  of  all  princes 
depended  on  him,  for  he  was  a  physician. 

“  What !  ”  exclaimed  the  priest,  “  are  you  not  M.  le 
Prince  de  Talmont?” 

“  He  has  been  dead  these  two  years,”  replied  the 
Duchesse  de  Choiseul. 

“But  who,  then,  is  in  this  carriage?” 

“  It  is  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Choiseul,”  replied  some 
one. 

Forthwith,  not  a  whit  disconcerted,  he  commenced  an¬ 
other  harangue,  in  which  he  lauded  to  the  skies  the  excel¬ 
lent  education  she  had  bestowed  upon  her  son. 

“  But  I  have  no  son,  monsieur,”  replied  the  duchess, 
quietly.  “  Ah  !  you  have  no  son ;  I  am  very  sorry  for 
that”  ;  and  so  saying,  his  reverence  put  his  harangue  in 
his  pocket  and  walked  off.  —  From  a  letter  to  his  friend 
F civ  art,  June  8,  1761. 


252  CQNSTANTIN  FRANCOIS  VOLNEY 


SOLNEY,  Constantin  Franqois  de  Chasse- 
bceuf,  a  French  historian  and  traveler ;  born  at 
Craon,  February  3,  175 7;  died  at  Paris,  April 
25,  1820.  The  family  name  was  Chasseboeuf,  but  his 
father  gave  him  that  of  Boisgiras,  which  he  himself 
changed  to  Volney,  the  only  name  by  which  he  is  known. 
Having  inerited  a  moderate  fortune,  he  studied  medi¬ 
cine,  history,  and  the  Oriental  languages  at  Paris,  and 
when  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  went  to  Egypt  and 
Syria,  where  he  resided  several  years.  Upon  his  re¬ 
turn  he  was  made  Director-General  of  Agriculture 
and  Commerce  in  Corsica.  In  1789  he  was  elected  to 
the  States-General  from  his  native  province  of  An¬ 
jou.  In  1793  he  was  imprisoned  for  several  months 
as  a  Girondist,  and  after  his  release  in  1794  was  ap¬ 
pointed  Professor  of  History  in  the  Normal  School. 
In  1795  he  went  to  the  United  States,  where  he  re¬ 
mained  three  years.  Upon  his  return,  he  was  made 
a  Senator,  but  declined  the  position  of  Minister  of 
the  Interior.  He  was  made  a  Count  by  Napoleon  in 
1808,  and  was  created  a  Peer  of  France  by  Louis 
XVIII.  in  1814.  The  principal  works  of  Volney  are 
Travels  in  Egypt  and  in  Syria  (1778)  ;  On  the  Chron¬ 
ology  of  Herodotus  (1781)  ;  The  Ruins t  or  Medita¬ 
tions  on  the  Revolutions  of  Empires ,  in  which  he  first 
avowed  those  sceptical  opinions  with  which  his  name 
is  specially  connected  (1791);  Lessons  of  History 
(1799)  ;  View  of  the  Climate  and  Soil  of  the  United 
States  of  America  (1803)  ;  New  Researches  in  An¬ 
cient  History  (1815)  ;  The  European  Alphabet  applied 
to  Asiatic  Languages  (1819). 


CONSTANTIN  FRANQOIS  VOLNEY 


253 


THE  MAMELUKES  OF  EGYPT. 

The  manners  of  the  Mamelukes  are  such  that  although 
I  shall  strictly  adhere  to  the  truth,  I  am  almost  afraid 
I  shall  be  suspected  of  prejudice  and  exaggeration.  Born 
for  the  most  part  in  the  rites  of  the  Greek  Church,  and 
circumcised  the  moment  they  are  born,  they  are  consid¬ 
ered  by  the  Turks  themselves  as  renegades,  void  of  faith 
and  religion.  Strangers  to  each  other,  they  are  not  bound 
by  those  natural  ties  which  unite  the  rest  of  mankind. 
Without  parents,  without  children,  the  past  has  done 
nothing  for  them,  and  they  do  nothing  for  the  future. 
Ignorant  and  superstitious  from  education,  they  become 
ferocious  from  the  murders  they  commit,  perfidious  from 
frequent  cabals,  seditious  from  tumults,  and  base,  deceit¬ 
ful,  and  corrupted  by  every  species  of  debauchery. 

Such  are  the  men  who  at  present  (1785)  govern  and 
decide  the  fate  of  Egypt.  A  few  lucky  strokes  of  the 
sabre,  a  greater  portion  of  cunning  or  audacity,  have 
conferred  on  them  this  pre-eminence.  But  it  is  not  to 
be  imagined  that  in  changing  fortune  these  upstarts 
change  their  character.  They  have  still  the  meanness  of 
slaves,  though  advanced  to  the  rank  of  monarchs.  Sov¬ 
ereignty  with  them  is  not  the  difficult  art  of  directing 
to  one  common  object  the  various  passions  of  a  numerous 
society,  but  only  the  means  of  possessing  more  women, 
more  toys,  more  horses,  and  slaves,  and  satisfying  all  their 
caprices.  The  whole  administration,  internal  and  ex¬ 
ternal,  is  conducted  on  this  principle.  It  consists  in  man¬ 
aging  the  Court  of  Constantinople  so  as  to  elude  the  trib¬ 
ute  or  the  menaces  of  the  Sultan ;  and  in  purchasing  a 
number  of  slaves,  multiplying  partisans,  countermining 
plots,  and  destroying  their  secret  enemies  by  the  dagger 
or  by  poison.  Ever  tortured  by  the  anxiety  of  suspicion, 
the  chiefs  live  like  the  ancient  tyrants  of  Syracuse. 
Murad  and  Ibrahim  sleep  continually  in  the  midst  of  car¬ 
bines  and  sabres.  Nor  have  they  any  idea  of  police  or 
public  order.  Their  only  employment  is  to  procure 
money;  and  the  method  considered  as  the  most  simple  is 
to  seize  it  wherever  it  is  to  be  found ;  to  wrest  it  by  vio¬ 
lence  from  its  possessor;  and  to  impose  arbitrary  contribu- 


254  FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 


tions  every  moment  on  the  villages,  and  on  the  custom¬ 
house,  which  in  its  turn  levies  them  again  upon  commerce. 

We  may  easily  judge  that  in  such  a  country  everything 
is  analogous  to  so  wretched  a  government.  The  greater 
part  of  the  lands  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Bey,  the  Mame¬ 
lukes,  and  the  professors  of  the  law.  The  number  of 
the  other  proprietors  is  extremely  small,  and  their  prop¬ 
erty  is  liable  to  a  thousand  impositions.  Every  moment 
some  contribution  is  to  be  paid,  or  some  damage  repaired. 
There  is  no  right  of  succession  or  inheritance  for  real 
property ;  everything  returns  to  the  government,  from 
which  everything  must  be  repurchased.  The  peasants 
are  hired  laborers,  to  whom  no  more  is  left  than  barely 
suffices  to  sustain  life.  —  Travels  in  Egypt  and  Syria. 


SOLTAIRE,  FRANgois  Marie  Arouet,  de,  a 
French  historian,  satirist  and  poet;  born  at 
Paris,  November  21,  1694;  died  there,  May 
30,  1778.  His  father,  who  had  been  a  notary  at 
Chatenay,  received  the  somewhat  lucrative  post  of 
Paymaster  of  Fees  to  the  Court  of  the  Exchequer. 
The  son  was  educated  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  Louis 
le  Grand,  and  at  seventeen  was  set  by  his  father  to 
the  study  of  law,  for  which  he  showed  little  inclina¬ 
tion.  Pie  was  introduced  into  the  gay  society  of 
Paris,  and  made  himself  famous  by  his  biting  satires. 
One  of  these,  written  at  twenty-one,  entitled  I  Have 
Seen ,  excited  the  anger  of  the  Regent,  the  Duke  of 
Orleans.  “  Monsieur  Arouet,”  said  the  Duke  to  him, 
“  I  bet  that  I  will  make  you  see  a  thing  you  have 
never  seen.”  Two  days  later  the  young  man  was 
shut  up  in  the  Bastile,  where  he  remained  eleven 
monfhs,  and  wrote  the  first  part  of  his  epic  poem, 
The  Henriade .  He  describes  his  life  in  the  Bastile 


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VOLTAIRE. 

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FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  255 

in  one  of  his  cleverest  poems.  The  Mare  Rene  apos¬ 
trophized  at  the  close  is  M.  d'Argenson,  the  Chief  of 
Police. 

LIFE  IN  THE  BASTILE. 

I  needs  must  go;  I  jog  along  in  style, 

With  close-shut  carriage,  to  the  royal  pile 
Built  in  our  father’s  days,  hard  by  St.  Paul, 

By  Charles  the  Fifth.  Oh,  brethren,  good  men  all, 

In  no  such  quarters  may  your  lot  be  cast ! 

Up  to  my  room  I  find  my  way  at  last. 

A  certain  rascal  with  a  smirking  face 
Exalts  the  beauties  of  my  new  retreat 
So  comfortable,  so  compact,  so  neat. 

Says  he,  “  While  Phoebus  runs  his  daily  race 
He  never  casts  one  ray  within  this  place. 

Look  at  these  walls,  some  ten  feet  thick  or  so ; 

You’ll  find  it  all  the  cooler  here,  you  know.” 

Then  bidding  me  admire  the  way  they  close 
The  triple  doors  and  triple  locks  on  those, 

With  gratings,  bolts,  and  bars  on  every  side, 

“  It’s  all  for  your  security,”  he  cried. 

At  stroke  of  noon  some  porridge  is  brought  in; 

At  noon  some  porridge  is  brought  in ; 

Such  fare  is  not  so  delicate  as  thin. 

I  am  not  tempted  by  the  splendid  food, 

But  what  they  tell  me  is:  “  ’Twill  do  you  good; 

So  eat  in  peace ;  no  one  will  hurry  you.” 

Here  in  this  doleful  den  I  make  ado, 

Bastilled,  imprisoned,  cabined,  cribbed,  confined. 

Nor  sleeping,  eating,  drinking,  to  my  mind ; 

Betrayed  by  every  one  —  my  mistress,  too  ! 

O  Mare  Rene  !  whom  Censor  Cato’s  ghost 
Might  have  well  chosen  for  his  vacant  post; 

O  Mare  Rene  !  through  whom  ’tis  brought  about 
That  so  much  people  murmur  here  below, 

To  your  kind  word  my  durance  vile  I  owe; 

May  the  good  God  some  fine  day  pay  you  out ! 


256  FRANCOIS  MARIE  ARQUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 


Soon  after  being  released  from  the  Bastile  Fran¬ 
cois  Arouet  took  the  name  of  Voltaire,  from  a  small 
estate  belonging  to  the  family.  “  I  have  been  too  un¬ 
fortunate/’  he  wrote,  “  under  my  former  name ;  I 
mean  to  see  whether  this  will  suit  me  better.”  The 
tragedy  CEdipe,  which  he  had  written  in  the  Bastile, 
was  produced,  and  met  with  great  favor.  The  Regent 
Orleans  made  him  a  considerable  present.  “  Mon¬ 
seigneur,”  said  Voltaire,  “  I  should  consider  it  very 
kind  if  his  Majesty  would  be  pleased  to  provide  hence¬ 
forth  for  my  board ;  but  I  beseech  your  highness  to 
provide  no  more  for  my  lodging.”  Voltaire  soon 
produced  the  tragedies  Artemise  and  Marianne ,  the 
comedy  L'lndiscret,  continued  The  Elenriade ,  and  put 
forth  numerous  small  poems.  He  became  a  favorite 
even  at  Court,  received  a  pension  from  the  Queen, 
and  made  money  by  speculating  in  stocks.  In  1726 
he  became  involved  in  a  dispute  with  a  disreputable 
courtier,  the  Chevalier  Rohan-Chabot,  who  caused 
him  to  be  severely  cudgelled.  V oltaire  challenged 
him  to  a  duel.  He  procured  the  arrest  of  Voltaire  and 
his  confinement  in  the  Bastile,  whence  he  was  re¬ 
leased  after  a  month  on  condition  of  leaving  the  coun¬ 
try.  He  went  to  England,  where  he  remained  three 
years.  Here  he  finished  The  Henriade,  which  was 
published  in  London,  under  royal  patronage.  He 
lived  in  that  literary  society  in  which  Bolingbroke, 
Pope,  and  Swift  held  sway.  In  1729  he  was  per¬ 
mitted  to  return  to  France.  Before  three  years  had 
passed  he  published  the  commencement  of  his  His¬ 
tory  of  Charles  XII.  of  Szveden;  produced  the  trage¬ 
dies  of  Bruins,  Eriphyle,  The  Death  of  C cesar,  and 
Zaire,  held  to  be  the  greatest  of  his  dramas.  But  he 
soon  fell  into  disfavor  at  Court  and  among  the  clergy 


FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  257 


by  the  publication  of  his  Lettres  Philo sophiques  sur 
les  Anglais,  which  was  filled  with  satirical  attacks 
upon  the  clergy  and  upon  some  of  the  dogmas  of  the 
Church.  The  Sorbonne  directed  the  book  to  be 
burned,  and  the  Parlement  of  Paris  ordered  the  ar¬ 
rest  of  the  author.  Voltaire  managed  to  escape  ar¬ 
rest,  and  took  refuge  in  one  place  and  another;  some¬ 
times  in  a  French  province,  sometimes  in  Switzerland, 
Holland,  or  Lorraine.  He  wrote  numerous  works  dur¬ 
ing  these  years,  notable  among  which  are  the  trage¬ 
dies  of  Alzire,  Merope,  and  Mahomet,  and  the  series 
of  essays  on  the  Philosophy  of  History  —  the  best  of 
all  his  prose  works.  He  made  innumerable  enemies 
in  every  quarter.  The  clergy  were  scandalized  by  his 
attacks  upon  religion ;  the  Court  —  which  grew  more 
devout  the  more  debauched  it  became  —  took  sides 
with  the  Church.  In  1746  he  barely  succeeded  in  his 
candidature  for  membership  in  the  French  Academy; 
in  1750  he  offered  himself  for  the  Academy  of  Sci¬ 
ences  and  the  Academy  of  Inscriptions,  and  was  re¬ 
jected  by  both.  Other  rebuffs  were  added,  and  he 
resolved  to  shake  the  dust  of  France  from  his  feet. 

Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia  had  long  urged 
Voltaire  to  take  up  his  abode  with  him,  offering  him 
a  residence  in  a  royal  palace,  the  gold  key  of  a  Cham¬ 
berlain,  the  jewelled  cross  of  a  noble  order,  and  a 
liberal  pension.  This  last  was  especially  acceptable 
to  Voltaire,  who  had  lost  in  stock- jobbing  the  con¬ 
siderable  fortune  which  he  had  acquired  by  the  same 
means.  He  went  to  Berlin  in  1750  —  he  being  then 
approaching  three7score.  His  residence  there  con¬ 
tinued  nearly  four  years.  It  forms  a  curious  episode 
in  personal  and  literary  biography,  in  which  neither 
of  the  parties  played  a  creditable  part.  How  the  King 
Vol.  XXIII.— 17 


258  FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 


of  Prussia  and  the  King  of  Letters  billed  and  cooed 
and  quarrelled,  how  they  mutually  blackguarded  each 
other,  has  been  told  in  part  by  Macaulay  in  his  paper 
on  “  Frederick  the  Great.” 

Voltaire  lived  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  this 
Prussian  episode.  He  made  another  ample  fortune 
by  new  stock-jobbing  operations,  and  finally  took  up 
his  residence  at  Ferney,  on  the  lake  of  Geneva  in 
Switzerland.  Within  these  years  were  written  most 
of  his  serious  attacks  upon  religion ;  or,  as  he  would 
phrase  it,  against  religious  superstitions.  These  years 
were  also  marked  by  many  noble  and  benevolent  actions 
which  of  themselves  would  entitle  him  a  high  place 
among  philanthropists.  He  left  Paris  in  1750,  and 
never  saw  it  again  until  1778.  He  arrived  at  Paris 
on  February  10th.  Never  had  a  great  writer  received 
such  an  ovation  as  awaited  him.  He  died  on  May 
30th.  Flis  last  appearance  in  public  was  at  the  rep¬ 
resentation  of  his  own  tragedy  of  Irene. 

The  following  poems  exhibit  him  at  his  best : 

THE  GREAT  EARTHQUAKE  AT  LISBON,  1/55. 

Can  we  conceive  a  God  beneficent, 

Upon  His  children’s  happiness  intent, 

Yet  on  them  sorrows  sparing  not  to  heap? 

What  eye  can  penetrate  designs  so  deep? 

Through  the  All-perfect  how  can  ill  befall, 

Yet  how  have  other  source,  since  He  rules  all? 

Still  Evil’s  everywhere ;  confusion  dense  ! 

Sad  puzzle,  still  too  hard  for  human  sense  ! 

A  God  came  down  to  shed  some  calm  around, 

Surveyed  the  earth,  and  left  it  as  He  found  ! 

His  power  to  mend  the  sophist  loud  denies ; 

He  wanted  but  the  will,  another  cries. 

And  while  the  disputants  their  views  proclaim, 

Lisbon  is  perishing  in  gulfs  of  flame, 

And  thirty  towns  with  ashes  strew  the  lea  — 


FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  259 


From  Tagus’  ravaged  borders  to  the  sea. 

Does  God  with  evil  scourge  a  guilty  race? 

Or  does  the  Lord  of  Being  and  of  Space, 

Unswayed  by  pity’s  touch  or  anger’s  force, 

Of  his  fixed  will  just  watch  the  changeless  course? 

Does  from  Him  Matter,  rebel  to  its  lord, 

Bear  in  itself  the  seeds  of  disaccord? 

Maybe  God  proves  us,  and  our  sojourn  here 
Is  but  a  passage  to  the  eternal  sphere. 

Fleeting,  though  sharp,  the  griefs  that  on  us  press, 

And  Death,  in  ending  them,  but  comes  to  bless. 

Yet  when  we  issue  from  His  dreadful  gate, 

Who  may  presume  to  claim  a  happier  fate  ? 

Tremble  we  must,  howe’er  the  riddle’s  read; 

And  knowing  nothing,  we  have  all  to  dread. 

Nature  is  mute :  we  question  her  in  vain, 

And  feel  that  God  alone  can  make  all  plain. 

None  other  can  expound  His  mysteries, 

Console  the  feeble,  and  illumine  the  wise. 

Left  guideless  everywhere,  no  way  is  seen ; 

Man  seeks  in  vain  some  reed  on  which  to  lean.  .  .  . 

What  of  all  this  can  wisest  minds  explain? 

Nothing:  the  Book  of  Fate  must  closed  remain. 

“  What  am  I  ?  whence  have  come,  and  whither  go  ?  ” 
Thus  men  still  ask,  and  this  can  never  know  — 

Atoms  tormented  on  this  heap  of  earth, 

Whom  Death  devours,  whom  Fate  finds  stuff  for  mirth, 
Yet  atoms  that  can  think;  whose  daring  eyes, 

Guided  by  thought,  have  measured  out  the  skies ; 

Depths  of  the  infinite  our  spirits  sound, 

But  never  pierce  the  veil  that  wraps  us  round. 

This  scene  of  pride  and  error  and  distress 
With  wretches  swarms,  who  prate  of  happiness, 

Waiting,  they  comfort  seek ;  none  wish  to  quit 
This  life,  nor,  quitting,  would  re-enter  it. 

Sometimes,  while  sighing  our  sad  souls  away, 

We  find  some  joy  that  sheds  a  passing  ray; 

But  pleasure,  wandering  shadow,  rests  not  long, 

While  griefs  and  failures  come  in  endless  throng. 
Mournful  the  past,  the  present  veiled  in  gloom 
If  life  and  thought  be  ended  in  the  tomb. 


260  FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 


“  One  day  all  will  be  well !  ”  our  hope  these  see. 

“  All  now  is  well !  ” —  behold  a  phantasy  ! 

“  Humble  in  plaint,  and  patient  to  endure, 

I  doubt  not  Providence,  because  obscure,” 

In  strains  less  mournful  did  I  erewhile  raise, 

As  Pleasure’s  bard,  the  song  of  praise. 

But  time  brings  change :  taught  by  my  lengthening  span. 
Sharing  the  feebleness  of  feeble  man, 

Amid  the  darknes  seeking  still  for  day, 

I  only  know  to  suffer  and  obey. 

Once  on  a  time  a  Caliph,  nigh  to  death, 

To  Heaven  thus  offered  his  expiring  breath: 

“  I  bring,  O  sole  King,  almighty  Lord  ! 

All  that  thy  boundless  realm  can  e’er  afford  — 

Sins,  Ignorance,  and  Efforts  vain  !  ”  — 

He  might  have  added  “  Plope  !  ”  to  cheer  the  pain. 

—  Translation  of  E.  B.  Hamley. 

SESOSTRIS. 

(Written  in  honor  of  Louis  XVI.) 

Each  man  a  Guiding  Spirit  has,  they  say, 

Whose  province  is  to  give  him  strength  and  light 
Throughout  life’s  dark  and  devious  way; 

And  though  this  Spirit  may  be  hid  from  sight, 

He  will  his  presence  oftentimes  betray. 

And  they  who  search  have  made  ’midst  old  and  curi¬ 
ous  things 

Will  recollect  that  times  existed  when 
Good  Genii  lived  and  even  talked  with  men, 

And  were  kind  friends  especially  to  Kings. 

Near  Memphis,  and  beneath  the  palms  that  waved 
Long  since  above  the  banks  made  sweet  and  green 
By  Nile’s  old  god,  who  kept  them  daily  laved, 

Young  King  Sesostris  walked  one  quiet  e’en 
Alone,  in  order  naught  might  intervene 
To  make  his  converse  with  his  guide  less  free. 

“  My  friend,”  said  he,  “  to  be  a  King  is  much, 

And  of  my  kingdom  I  would  worthy  be ; 

What  shall  I  do?”  The  Angel,  with  a  touch 


FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  BE  VOLTAIRE  261 

Said,  “  Come  !  To  yonder  labyrinth  be  our  way, 

And  there  to  great  Osiris  homage  pay ; 

Then  thou  shalt  learn.” 


Anxious  his  Guide  to  please 
The  Prince  obeys ;  and  in  the  court  he  sees 
Two  deities  of  very  different  mien : 

The  one  a  beauty  of  most  dazzling  sheen, 

In  smiles  all  wreathed ;  writh  Loves,  and  Graces  hover¬ 
ing  round, 

In  deepest  depths  of  dear  delight  all  drowned. 

Three  worshippers  stood  some  way  from  her  throne, 

Dry,  pale,  and  trembling  —  naught  but  skin  and  bone. 
The  King,  astonished,  bids  his  guide  confess. 

“  Who  is  this  nymph  of  such  rare  loveliness  ? 

And  who  these  three  of  ugliness  intense  ? 

His  Guide,  in  whispered  words,  replies :  “  My  Prince, 

This  beauty  knows  you  not,  indeed?  Tier  fame 
Is  great  at  Court;  there  all  for  her  evince 
Profoundest  love ;  and  Pleasure  is  her  name. 

These  haggard  three,  who  give  you  so  much  pain, 

March  always  close  behind  their  Sovereign : 

Disgust,  Fatigue,  Repentance,  you  must  call 
This  trio  —  Pleasure’s  horrid  offspring  all.” 

Pained  by  the  sight,  and  by  the  story  grieved, 

He  turned,  and  then  the  other  form  perceived. 

“  My  friend,  be  pleased  to  let  me  know,”  said  he, 

“  Yon  goddess’  name,  whom  further  off  we  see ; 

And  who  presents  a  much  less  tender  mien, 

Although  her  air,  so  noble  and  serene, 

Delights  me  much.  Close  by  her  side  appear 
A  sceptre  made  of  gold,  a  sword,  a  sphere, 

A  balance,  too,  and  in  her  hands  she  holds 
A  scroll,  the  which  she  reads  as  she  unfolds ; 

Of  every  ornament  her  breast  seems  free, 

Except  a  shield.  A  temple  made  of  gold 
Flies  open  at  her  voice ;  and  there  I  see 
Upon  its  front  —  oh,  wondrous  to  behold  !  — 

These  blazing  words:  ‘To  Immortality!’ 

And  may  I  enter  there  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  the  Guide ; 


262  FRAN QO IS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 

“  But  chiefly  on  yourself  you  must  depend, 

And  obstacles  encounter  without  end. 

This  goddess  hath  no  facile,  tender  side 
By  which  you  may  approach  her  grace  to  steal. 

In  Pleasure,  though  more  charms  may  be  descried, 

The  other  will  a  truer  love  reveal ; 

To  please  this  being  of  immortal  birth 

Both  mind  and  heart  must  be  of  sterling  worth. 

Her  name  is  Wisdom ;  and  this  brilliant  fane, 

Just  shown  to  you,  to  glorious  deeds  she  gives; 

And  he  who  lives  well,  here  forever  lives; 

And  here  may  you  a  dwelling-place  obtain. 

Then  let  your  choice  between  the  two  be  made; 

True  service  to  them  both  cannot  be  paid.” 

The  Prince  replied :  “  If  mine,  then,  be  the  choice, 

A  single  moment  will  I  not  defer. 

I  might  in  either  of  the  twain  rejoice. 

The  first  a  moment’s  bliss  could  in  me  stir ; 

The  second,  through  me  others’  bliss  command.”  — 

The  first,  then,  greeting  with  a  gracious  word, 

The  Prince  two  kisses  flung  her  from  his  hand, 

And  on  the  second  all  his  love  conferred. 

—  Translation  of  F.  W.  Ricord. 

Voltaire’s  theory  of  the  aim  and  scope  of  history, 
as  set  forth  in  his  Philosophy  of  History,  is  better 
than  his  execution  of  it,  ether  before  or  afterward. 
His  best  work  of  this  class  —  though  by  no  means  a 
masterpiece  —  is  the  History  of  Charles  XII.  of  Szue- 
den. 

ON  HISTORY. 

My  object  has  been  the  history  of  the  human  intellect, 
and  not  the  detail  of  facts,  nearly  always  distorted.  It 
was  not  intended,  for  instance,  to  inquire  of  what  family 
the  lord  of  Puiset,  or  the  lord  of  Montlheri  may  be,  who 
made  war  on  the  Kings  of  France;  but  to  trace  the  grad¬ 
ual  advancement  from  the  barbarous  rusticity  of  those 
days  to  the  polish  of  ours.  .  .  . 


FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  263 


There  is  no  object  in  knowing  in  what  year  a  prince 
unworthy  of  remembrance  succeeded  a  barbarous  ruler  in 
a  rude  nation.  The  more  important  it  is  to  know  of  the 
great  actions  of  sovereigns  who  have  rendered  their  people 
better  and  happier,  the  more  we  should  ignore  the  herd 
of  kings  who  only  load  the  memory.  —  The  Philosophy  of 
History. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CHARLES  XII.  OF  SWEDEN. 

In  October,  1718,  Charles  departed  a  second  time  for 
the  conquest  of  Norway.  He  hoped  within  six  months  to 
make  himself  master  of  that  kingdom.  He  chose  rather 
to  go  and  conquer  rocks  amidst  ice  and  snow  in  the  depth 
of  winter  than  to  retake  his  beautiful  provinces  in  Ger¬ 
many  from  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  These  he  expected 
he  should  soon  be  able  to  recover  in  consequence  of  his 
alliance  with  the  Czar  of  Russia ;  and  his  vanity,  more¬ 
over,  was  more  flattered  at  ravishing  a  kingdom  from  his 
victorious  enemy,  the  King  of  Poland. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  River  Tistendall  stands  Fred- 
erickshall,  a  place  of  great  strength  and  importance,  and 
considered  as  the  key  of  the  kingdom.  Charles  formed 
the  siege  of  this  place  in  the  month  of  December.  The 
soldiers,  benumbed  with  cold,  could  scarcely  turn  up  the 
earth,  which  was  so  hardened  by  the  frost  that  it  was 
almost  as  difficult  to  pierce  it  as  if  they  had  been  opening 
trenches  in  a  rock ;  yet  the  Swedes  could  not  be  dis¬ 
heartened  while  they  saw  at  their  head  their  king,  who 
partook  of  all  their  fatigues.  Charles  had  never  before 
undergone  so  many  hardships.  His  constitution,  hardened 
by  eighteen  years  of  severe  labors,  was  fortified  to  such 
a  degree  that  he  slept  in  the  open  field  in  Norway,  in 
the  midst  of  winter,  without  the  least  injury  to  his  health. 
On  the  nth  of  December  he  went  at  nine  in  the  evening 
to  visit  the  trenches ;  and  not  finding  the  parallel  so  far 
advanced  as  he  expected,  appeared  very  much  displeased. 
M.  Megret,  a  French  engineer  who  conducted  the  siege, 
assured  him  that  the  place  could  be  taken  in  eight'  days. 
“  We  shall  see,”  said  the  king,  and  went  on  with  the 
engineer  to  survey  the  works.  He  stopped  at  a  place 


264  FRANQOIS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 


where  a  branch  of  the  trenches  formed  an  angle  with 
the  parallel.  Kneeling  on  the  inner  talus,  and  resting  his 
elbow  on  the  parapet,  he  continued  in  that  posture  for 
some  time,  to  view  the  men  who  were  carrying  on  the 
trenches  by  starlight. 

Almost  half  of  the  king’s  body  was  exposed  to  a  bat¬ 
tery  of  cannon,  pointed  directly  against  the  angle  where 
he  was.  There  was  no  one  near  his  person  at  this  time 
but  two  Frenchmen,  M.  Sequier,  his  aide-de-camp,  and 
the  engineer  Megret.  The  cannon  bred  upon  them,  but 
the  king,  being  the  least  covered  by  the  parapet,  was 
the  most  exposed.  At  some  distance  behind  them  was 
Count  Schwerin,  who  commanded  in  the  trenches ;  Count 
Posse,  a  captain  of  the  guards,  and  an  aide-de-camp  named 
Kulbert,  were  receiving  orders  from  him. 

Sequier  and  Megret  saw  the  king  the  moment  he  fell, 
which  he  did  upon  the  parapet,  with  a  deep  sigh.  They 
immediately  ran  to  him.  He  was  already  dead.  A  ball 
of  half  a  pound  weight  had  struck  him  on  the  right  tem¬ 
ple,  and  made  a  hole  sufficient  to  receive  three  fingers 
at  once ;  his  head  was  reclined  upon  the  parapet ;  his  left 
eye  beat  in,  and  the  right  one  entirely  out  of  its  socket. 
The  instant  of  his  wounding  had  been  that  of  his  death ; 
but  he  had  the  force,  whilst  expiring  in  so  sudden  a 
manner,  to  place  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword, 
and  he  remained  in  that  attitude.  At  the  sight  of  this 
spectacle  Megret,  a  man  of  peculiar  and  callous  disposi¬ 
tion,  said  nothing  but  these  words :  “  There !  the  play  is 
over;  let  us  be  off!  ”  Sequier  ran  immediately  to  inform 
Count  Schwerin.  They  all  agreed  to  conceal  the  news 
from  the  soldiers,  till  they  could  acquaint  the  Prince  of 
Hesse,  the  husband  of  Charles’s  sister,  with  the  death  of 
the  king.  They  wrapped  the  body  in  a  gray  cloak ;  Siquier 
put  his  hat  and  wig  on  the  king’s  head ;  and  in  this  con¬ 
dition  they  carried  Charles,  under  the  name  of  one  Cap¬ 
tain  Carlberg,  through  the  midst  of  the  troops,  who  saw 
their  dead  king  pass  them,  without  ever  dreaming  that  it 
was  he.  The  Prince  instantly  gave  orders  that  no  one 
should  go  out  of  the  camp ;  and  that  all  the  passes  to 
.Sweden  should  be  strictly  guarded,  that  he  might  have 
time  to  take  the  necessary  measures  for  placing  the  crown 


FRAN Q0 IS  MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  265 


on  his  wife’s  head,  and  excluding  the  Duke  of  Holstein, 
who  might  lay  claim  to  it. 

Thus  fell  Charles  XII.,  King  of  Sweden,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-six  years  and  a  half,  after  having  experienced  what¬ 
ever  is  most  brilliant  in  prosperity,  and  all  that  is  most 
poignant  in  adversity,  without  having  been  enervated  by 
the  one,  or  having  wavered  in  the  other.  He  carried  all 
the  virtues  of  heroes  to  an  excess  at  which  they  are  as 
dangerous  as  their  opposite  vices.  His  resolution,  hard¬ 
ened  into  obstinacy,  occasioned  his  misfortunes  in  the 
Ukraine,  and  detained  him  five  years  in  Turkey;  his  lib¬ 
erality,  degenerating  into  profusion,  ruined  Sweden;  his 
courage,  extending  even  to  rashness,  was  the  cause  of  his 
death;  his  justice  sometimes  extended  to  cruelty;  and 
during  the  last  years  of  his  reign  the  means  he  employed 
to  support  his  authority  differed  little  from  tyranny. 

His  great  qualities  —  any  one  of  which  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  have  immortalized  another  prince  — ■ 
proved  the  misfortune  of  his  country.  He  never  was 
the  aggressor;  yet  in  taking  vengeance  he  was  more  im¬ 
placable  than  prudent.  He  was  the  first  man  who  ever 
acquired  the  title  of  conqueror  without  the  least  desire 
of  enlarging  his  own  dominions ;  and  whose  only  end  in 
subduing  kingdoms  was  to  have  the  pleasure  of  giving 
them  away.  His  passion  for  glory,  for  war,  for  revenge, 
prevented  him  from  being  a  good  politician :  a  quality 
without  which  the  world  had  never  before  seen  any  one 
a  conqueror.  Before  a  battle  and  after  a  victory,  he  was 
modest  and  humble ;  and  after  a  defeat  firm  and  un¬ 
daunted.  Inflexible  toward  others  as  well  as  toward  him¬ 
self ;  rating  at  nothing  the  fatigues  of  his  subjects  any 
more  than  his  own ;  rather  an  extraordinary  than  a  great 
man;  and  more  worthy  to  be  admired  than  imitated,  his 
life  ought  to  be  a  lesson  to  kings  how  much  a  pacific  and 
happy  government  is  preferable  to  so  much  glory.  —  His¬ 
tory  of  Charles  XII. 


266 


JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL 


80NDEL,  Joost  van  den,  a  Dutch  poet;  born 
at  Cologne,  November  17,  1587;  died  at  Am¬ 
sterdam,  February  5,  1679.  His  parents  were 
Anabaptists,  and  removed  to  Amsterdam  during  his 
childhood.  He  was  the  most  celebrated  Dutch  poet 
and  dramatist  of  the  seventeenth  century.  His  works 
include  metrical  translations  of  the  Psalms,  of  Virgil, 
of  Ovid,  and  satires  and  tragedies.  The  most  cele¬ 
brated  plays  are  Gijsbrecht  van  Aemstel,  Lucifer ,  and 
Palamedes.  {  The  best  edition  of  his  works  contains 
twenty-one  volumes  (  Amsterdam,  1820  ). 

CHORUS  FROM  “  PALAMEDES.” 

The  thinly  sprinkled  stars  surrender 
To  early  dawn  their  dying  splendor; 

The  shades  of  night  are  dim  and  far, 

And  now  before  the  morning-star 
The  heavenly  legions  disappear : 

The  constellation’s  charioteer 
No  longer  in  the  darkness  burns, 

But  backward  his  bright  courser  turns. 

Now  golden  Titan,  from  the  sea, 

With  azure  steeds  comes  gloriously, 

And  shines  o’er  woods  and  dells  and  downs, 

And  soaring  Ida’s  leafy  crowns. 

O  sweetly  welcome  break  of  morn  ! 

Thou  dost  with  happiness  adorn 
The  heart  of  him  who  cheerily, 

Contented,  unwearily, 

Surveys  whatever  Nature  gives, 

What  beauty  in  her  presence  lives 

And  wanders  oft  the  banks  alone 

Of  some  sweet  stream  with  murmuring  song. 

Oh,  more  than  regal  is  his  lot, 

Who,  in  some  blest,  secluded  spot, 

Remote  from  crowding  cares  and  fears, 


JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL 


267 


His  loved,  his  cherished  dwelling  rears ! 

For  empty  praises  never  pining, 

His  wishes  to  his  cot  confining. 

And  listening  to  each  cheerful  bird 
Whose  animating  song  is  heard : 

When  morning  dews,  with  Zeph}w’s  sigh 
Has  wafted,  on  the  roses  lie, 

Whose  leaves  beneath  the  pearl-drops  bend : 
When  thousand  rich  perfumes  ascend, 

And  thousand  hues  adorn  the  bowers, 

And  form  a  rainbow  of  sweet  flowers, 

Or  bridal-robe  for  Iris  made 
From  every  bud  in  sun  and  shade. 

Contented  there  to  plant  or  set, 

Or  snare  the  birds  with  crafty  net ; 

To  grasp  his  bending  rod,  and  wander 
Beside  the  banks  where  waves  meander, 
And  thence  their  fluttering  tenants  take ; 

Or,  rising  ere  the  sun’s  awake, 

Prepare  his  steed,  and  scour  the  grounds, 
And  chase  the  hare  with  swift-paced  hounds; 
Or  ride  beneath  the  noontide  rays, 

Through  peaceful  glens  and  silent  ways, 
Which  wind  like  Cretan  labyrinth ; 

Or  where  the  purple  hyacinth 
Is  glowing  on  its  bed;  or  where 
The  mead  red-speckled  daisies  bear : 

Whilst  maidens  milk  the  grazing  cow, 

And  peasants  toil  beneath  the  plough, 

Or  reap  the  crops  beneath  their  feet, 

Or  sow  luxuiiant  flax  or  wheat. 

Here  flourishes  the  waving  corn, 

Encircled  by  the  wounding  thorn ; 

There  glides  a  bark  by  meadows  green; 

And  there  the  village  smoke  is  seen ; 

And  there  a  castle  meets  the  view, 
Half-fading  in  the  distance  blue. 

How  hard,  how  wretched  is  his  doom 
Whom  sorrows  follow  to  the  tomb 
And  who,  from  morn  till  quiet  eve, 

Distresses  pain,  and  troubles  grieve, 


JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL 


268 


And  cares  oppress  !  for  these  await 
The  slave,  who,  in  a  restless  state, 

Would  bid  the  form  of  concord  flee, 

And  call  his  object  liberty: 

He  finds  his  actions  all  pursued 
By  envy  or  ingratitude. 

The  robe  is  honoring,  I  confess ; 

The  cushion  has  its  stateliness ;  — 

But,  oh,  they  are  a  burden,  too ! 

And  pains  spring  up,  forever  new, 

Beneath  the  roof  which  errors  stain, 

And  where  the  strife  is  —  who  shall  reign? 

But  he  who  lives  in  rural  ease 
Avoids  the  cares  that  torture  these : 

No  golden  chalices  invite 
To  quaff  the  deadly  aconite; 

Nor  dreads  he  secret  foes,  who  lurk 
Behind  the  throne  with  coward  dirk,  — 

Assassin  friends  —  whose  murderous  blow 
Lays  all  the  pride  of  greatness  low. 

No  fears  his  even  life  annoy, 

Nor  feels  he  pride,  nor  finds  he  joy 
In  popularity,  that  brings 
A  fickle  pleasure,  and  then  —  stings. 

He  is  not  roused  at  night  from  bed, 

With  weary  eyes  and  giddy  head ; 

At  morn,  no  long  petitions  vex  him, 

Nor  scrutinizing  looks  perplex  him: 

He  has  no  joys  in  others’  cares; 

He  bears  —  and  while  he  bears,  forbears ; 

And  from  the  world  he  oft  retreats 
Where  learning’s  gentle  smile  he  meets. 

He  heeds  not  priestcraft’s  ban  or  praise, 

But  scorns  the  deep  anathemas 
Which  he,  who  in  his  blindness  errs, 

Receives  from  these  —  God's  messengers! 

—  Translation  of  Longfellow. 


JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL 


269 


CHORUS  OF  ANGELS. 

Who  sits  above  heaven’s  heights  sublime, 
Yet  fills  the  grave’s  profoundest  place, 
Beyond  eternity  or  time 

Or  the  vast  round  of  viewless  space: 

Who  on  himself  alone  depends, 

Immortal,  glorious,  but  unseen, 

And  in  his  mighty  being  blends 
What  rolls  around  or  flows  within. 

Of  all  we  know  not,  ail  we  know, 

Prime  source  and  origin,  a  sea 
Whose  waters  pour’d  on  earth  below 
Wake  blessing’s  brightest  radiancy. 

His  power,  love,  wisdom,  first  exalted 
And  awaken’d  from  oblivion’s  birth 
Yon  starry  arch,  yon  palace  vaulted, 

Yon  heaven  of  heavens,  to  smile  on  earth. 
From  this  resplendent  majesty 

We  shade  us,  ’neath  our  sheltering  wings. 
While  awe-inspired  and  tremblingly 
We  praise  the  glorious  King  of  Kings, 
With  sight  and  sense  confused  and  dim. 

O  name,  describe  the  Lord  of  Lords  ! 

The  seraphs’  praise  shall  hallow  him  — 

Or  is  the  theme  too  vast  for  words? 

RESPONSE. 

’Tis  God !  who  pours  the  living  glow 
Of  light,  creation’s  fountain-head : 

Forgive  the  praise,  too  mean  and  low, 

Or  from  the  living  or  the  dead ! 

No  tongue  Thy  peerless  name  hath  spoken; 

No  space  can  hold  that  awful  Name; 

The  aspiring  spirit’s  wing  is  broken; 

Thou  wilt  be,  wert,  and  art  the  same. 
Language  is  dumb;  Imagination, 

Knowledge,  and  Science  helpless  fall ; 

They  are  irreverent  profanation, 

And  Thou,  O  God !  art  all  in  all. 


270 


JOHANN  HEINRICH  VOSS 


How  vain  on  such  a  thought  to  dwell ! 

Who  knows  Thee?  Thee,  the  All-unknown 
Can  angels  be  Thy  oracle, 

Who  art,  who  art  Thyself  alone? 

None,  none  can  trace  Thy  course  sublime, 

For  none  can  catch  a  ray  from  Thee, 

The  splendor  and  the  Source  of  Time, 

The  Eternal  of  Eternity  ! 

The  light  of  light  outpour’d  conveys 
Salvation  in  its  flight  elysian, 

Brighter  than  even  Thy  mercy’s  rays ; 

But  vainly  would  our  feeble  vision 
Aspire  to  Thee.  From  day  to  day 

Age  steals  on  us,  but  meets  Thee  never. 

Thy  power  is  life’s  support  and  stay  — 

We  praise  Thee,  sing  Thee,  Lord  !  forever. 
Holy  !  holy  !  holy  !  Praise, 

Praise  be  Flis  in  every  land  ! 

Safety  in  His  presence  stays, 

Sacred  is  His  high  command. 

—  Translation  of  John  Bowring. 


^-^OSS,  Johann  Heinrich,  a  German  transla- 
tor,  poet  and  archaeologist ;  horn  at  Sommers- 
dorf,  Mecklenburg,  February  20,  1751  ;  died  at 
Heidelberg,  March  29,  1826.  He  studied  theology  and 
philology  at  Gottingen,  where  he  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  poetic  brotherhood  known  as  the  Got¬ 
tingen  Hainhund.  In  1778  he  was  appointed  rector 
of  the  school  at  Ottendorf,  and  after  occupying  that 
position  some  four  years  he  removed  to  Eutin,  and 
occupied  a  similar  office  until  failing  health  compelled 
his  resignation.  In  1802  he  went  to  Jena  and  three 
years  later  to  Heidelberg,  where  he  spent  the  re- 


JOHANN  HEINRICH  VOSS 


271 


mainder  of  his  life.  Voss’s  literary  fame  rests  chiefly 
upon  his  translations  of  classic  poetry,  particularly 
that  of  Homer;  the  Odyssey  appeared  in  1781  and  the 
Iliad  in  1793.  He  translated  Virgil  in  1799,  Horace 
and  Heisod  in  1801,  Theocritus  Bion  and  Moschus  in 
1808,  Tibullus  in  1810  and  Aristophanes  in  1821. 
With  the  assistance  of  his  sons  he  translated  Shake¬ 
speare  in  1819-29.  His  principal  original  work  is  Luise 
and  Other  Poems  (1785),  which  was  subsequently 
republished  with  many  additions.  In  these  poems  he 
made  a  fairly  successful  attempt  to  apply  the  style 
and  method  of  classical  poetry  to  the  expression  of 
German  thought  and  sentiment.  In  his  Mytholo- 
gische  Brief e  (1794),  in  which  he  attacked  the  ideas 
of  Heyne,  and  in  his  Antisymbolil  (1824-26),  written 
in  opposition  to  Creuzer,  he  made  important  contri¬ 
butions  to  the  study  of  mythology.  Sophronizon  is 
a  powerful  argument  in  favor  of  free  judgment  in 
religion,  and  was  inspired  by  the  repudiation  of  Prot¬ 
estantism  by  his  friend  Friederich  von  Stolberg. 

THE  SPINNER. 

As  I  sat  spinning  at  the  door 

A  youth  advanced  along  the  road ; 

His  dark  eye  smiled  at  me,  and  o’er 
His  cheek  a  tint  of  crimson  glowed : 

I  then  looked  up,  in  thought  ’twas  done, 

And  sat  so  bashfully  and  spun. 

“  Good  morrow,  gentle  maid,”  he  spoke, 

Approaching  with  a  timid  grace ; 

I  trembled,  and  the  thread  it  broke ; 

My  heart  beat  with  a  quicker  pace. 

Again  the  thread  I  fastened  on, 

And  sat  so  bashfully  and  spun. 


272  ETHEL  LILLIAN  BOOLE  VOYNICH 

With  soft  caress  he  pressed  my  hand, 

And  swore  none  could  with  it  compare ; 

No !  not  the  fairest  in  the  land, 

So  white  and  round,  so  soft  and  fair. 

Though  by  this  praise  my  heart  was  won, 

I  sat  so  bashfully  and  spun. 

Upon  my  chair  he  leant  his  arm, 

And  praised  the  fineness  of  the  thread  — 

His  lips  so  near,  so  red  and  warm, 

How  tenderly  “  Sweet  maid,”  they  said  ! 

Thus  none  e’er  looked  at  me,  not  one ; 

I  sat  so  bashfully  and  spun. 

Meanwhile  his  handsome  countenance 

Bent  downward  and  approached  my  cheek, 

My  head  encountered  his  by  chance, 

While  bending  the  lost  thread  to  seek. 

He  kissed  me  then,  while  I,  undone, 

Sat  bashfully  and  spun  and  spun. 

I  turned  to  chide  with  earnest  face, 

But  bolder  still  he  then  became, 

He  clasped  me  with  a  fond  embrace, 

And  kissed  my  cheek,  as  red  as  flame. 

Oh,  tell  me,  sisters,  tell  me  !  how 
Could  I  to  spin  continue  now? 

Translation  of  A.  Baskerville. 


SOYNICH,  Ethel  Lillian  Boole,  an  English 
novelist;  born  at  London  in  1864.  She  was 
married  in  1886  to  W.  M.  Voynich,  a  Polish 
author  residing  in  England.  Her  works  include  Rus¬ 
sian  Humor  (1890);  Stories  From  Garshin  (1895); 
The  Gadfly  (1897):  Jack  Raymond  (1901):  and 
Olive  Latham  (1904). 


ETHEL  LILLIAN  BOOLE  VOYNICH 


273 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

Olive,  always  reserved,  grew  more  and  more  so  under 
the  chilling  influence  of  mystery  and  vague,  cold  disap¬ 
pointment.  She  was  of  a  character  essentially  stable  and 
temperate.  To  fling  aside  the  habits,  the  aims  and  pro¬ 
fessional  ambitions  of  all  her  youth,  and  follow  her  lover 
out  into  a  menacing  and  unknown  world,  had  been  to  her 
an  even  harder  thing  than  most  women  would  have  found 
it ;  she  lacked  the  perception  of  romance  which  might  have 
sustained  many  natures.  And  having  taken  so  momentous 
a  step  in  the  dark,  she  found  that  it  had  led  her  nowhere. 
Notwithstanding  the  love  between  them,  unclouded  by  an 
instant’s  doubt  on  either  side,  they  seemed  to  be  drifting 
steadily  further  apart.  She  would  have  been  content, 
however  hopeless  her  future  looked  to  her,  had  she  but 
been  able  to  feel  that  her  presence  was  any  real  comfort 
to  him;  but  the  bitter  complaint:  “  You  don’t  understand  ! 
you  don’t  understand !  ”  drove  her  back  upon  herself,  dis¬ 
couraged  and  bewildered.  It  was  true ;  she  understood 
only  that  he  suffered  and  that  she  could  not  help  him. 

He  suffered,  indeed,  so  much  that  all  other  things 
were  blotted  out  to  him.  The  numbed  life  in  him  had 
stirred  again  at  her  coming,  and  she  had  brought  no  help. 
His  days  went  by  in  a  blank  round  of  mechanical  duties, 
his  nights  in  raging  misery.  He  longed  at  times  for  the 
beast  to  spring  quickly,  and  have  done  with  it;  so  mean, 
so  poor,  so  empty  seemed  the  hours,  any  one  of  which 
might  be  the  last.  He  looked  back  over  his  past  life;  and 
saw  but  ghostly  processions  of  dreams  unfulfilled,  of 
statues  unmodelled,  of  joys  untouched;  tragic  abortions  of 
the  things  that  might  have  been.  In  the  future  waited 
him  drudgery,  weariness,  the  old,  hard,  uncongenial  duty, 
the  old,  heavy  chain  to  drag;  then,  perhaps,  an  obscure 
and  useless  martyrdom  for  a  faith  that  he  had  found 
wanting  and  beyond  that  the  black  unknown.  —  Olive 
Latham  (Copyright,  1904,  by  Jo  B.  Lippincott  Com¬ 
pany). 


Vol.  XXIII.— 18 


274 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


RIES,  Hugo  de,  a  Dutch  scientist  and  philos- 
opher ;  born  at  Amsterdam  in  1853.  He  was  a 
pupil  of  Sachs,  Bunsen  and  Hofmeister.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  course  of  his  studies  he  has  been  a  student,  lec¬ 
turer  and  professor  in  universities  in  both  Germany 
and  Holland,  and  he  came  to  his  self-appointed  task 
with  a  broad  knowledge  of  physiological  science  ob¬ 
tained  at  first  hand,  and  with  the  mental  strength  and 
support  that  came  from  contact  with  the  leaders  in 
biological  thought  in  his  earlier  days,  and  with  the 
technical  skill  that  is  to  be  gained  by  experience  in 
many  laboratories.  He  is  Doctor  of  Philosophy  of  the 
[University  of  Leyden ;  Professor  of  Botany  in  the  Uni¬ 
versity  of  Amsterdam ;  and  a  profound  student  of 
variation,  heredity  and  evolution,  whose  studies  have 
exerted  a  lasting  influence  on  the  views  of  mankind 
regarding  the  constitution  of  living  matter  and  the 
physical  basis  of  inheritance.  He  is  especially  distin¬ 
guished  as  the  author  of  a  masterpiece  of  laborious  and 
exact  research  that  has  placed  the  general  theory  of 
the  origin  of  species  on  a  new  foundation.  His  prin¬ 
cipal  work  Species  and  Varieties;  Their  Origin  by  Mu¬ 
tation  (1904-5)  is  a  collection  of  lectures  delivered  at 
the  University  of  California.  The  contents  of  the 
book  include  a  readable  and  orderly  recital  of  the  facts 
and  details  which  furnish  the  basis  for  the  mutation- 
theory  of  the  origin  of  species.  All  of  the  more  im¬ 
portant  phases  of  heredity  and  descent  come  in  for  a 
clarifying  treatment  that  renders  the  volume  extremely 
readable  to  the  amateur  as  well  as  to  the  trained  biolo¬ 
gist.  The  more  reliable  historical  data  are  cited  and 

CJ 

the  results  obtained  by  Professor  de  Vries  in  the 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


Botanical  Garden  at  Amsterdam  during  twenty  years 
of  observations  are  described.  Not  the  least  important 
service  rendered  by  Professor  de  Vries  in  the  prepara¬ 
tion  of  these  lectures  consists  in  the  indication  of  defi¬ 
nite  specific  problems  that  need  investigation,  many  of 
which  may  be  profitably  taken  up  by  anyone  in  a  small 
garden.  He  has  rescued  the  subject  of  evolution  from 
the  thrall  of  polemics  and  brought  it  once  more  within 
reach  of  the  great  mass  of  naturalists,  any  one  of 
whom  may  reasonably  hope  to  contribute  something 
to  its  advancement  by  orderly  observations.  The  text 
of  the  lectures  has  been  revised  and  rendered  into  a 
form  suitable  for  permanent  record  by  Dr.  D.  T.  Mac- 
Dougal  who  has  been  engaged  in  researches  upon  the 
subject  for  several  years,  and  who  has  furnished  sub¬ 
stantial  proof  of  the  mutation  theory  of  the  origin  of 
species  by  his  experimental  investigations  carried  on  in 
the  New  York  Botanical  Gardens. 

ARTIFICIAL  AND  NATURAL  SELECTION. 

The  comparison  of  artificial  and  natural  selection  has 
furnished  material  support  for  the  theory  of  descent,  and 
in  turn  been  the  object  of  constant  criticism  since  the 
time  of  Darwin.  The  criticisms,  in  greater  part,  have 
arisen  chiefly  from  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  both  pro¬ 
cesses.  By  the  aid  of  distinctions  recently  made  possible, 
the  contrast  between  elementary  species  and  improved 
races  has  become  much  more  vivid,  and  promises  to  yield 
better  results  on  which  to  base  comparisons  of  artificial 
and  natural  selection. 

Elementary  species,  as  we  have  seen  in  earlier  lectures, 
occur  in  wild  and  in  cultivated  plants.  In  older  genera 
and  systematic  species  they  are  often  present  in  small 
numbers  only,  but  many  of  the  more  recent  wild  types 
and  also  many  of  the  cultivated  forms  are  very  rich  in 
this  respect.  In  culture  the  choice  of  the  most  adequate 


276 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


elementary  forms  for  any  special  purpose  is  acknowledged 
as  the  first  step  in  the  way  of  selection,  and  is  designated 
by  the  name  of  variety-testing,  applying  the  term  variety 
to  all  the  subdivisions  of  systematic  species  indiscrimi¬ 
nately.  In  natural  processes  it  bears  the  title  of  survival 
of  species.  The  fact  that  recent  type  show  large  numbers, 
and  in  some  instances  even  hundreds  of  minor  constant 
forms,  while  the  older  genera  are  considerably  reduced 
in  this  respect,  is  commonly  explained  by  the  assumption 
of  extinction  of  species  on  a  correspondingly  large  scale. 
This  extinction  is  considered  to  affect  the  unfit  in  a 
higher  measure  than  the  fit.  Consequently  the  former 
vanish,  often  without  leaving  any  trace  of  their  existence, 
and  only  those  that  prove  to  be  adapted  to  the  surround¬ 
ing  external  conditions,  resist  and  survive. 

This  selection  exhibits  far-reaching  analogies  between 
the  artificial  and  the  natural  processes,  and  is  in  both 
cases  of  the  very  highest  importance.  In  nature  the 
dying  out  of  unfit  mutations  is  the  result  of  the  great 
struggle  for  life.  In  a  previous  lecture  we  have  com¬ 
pared  its  agency  with  that  of  a  sieve.  All  elements  which 
are  too  small  or  too  weak  fall  through,  and  only  those 
are  preserved  which  resist  the  sifting  process.  Reduced 
in  number  they  thrive  and  multiply  and  are  thus  enabled 
to  strike  out  new  mutative  changes.  These  are  again 
submitted  to  the  sifting  tests,  and  the  frequent  repetition 
of  this  process  is  considered  to  give  a  good  explanation 
of  the  manifold,  highly  complicated,  and  admirable  struc¬ 
tures  which  strike  the  beginner  as  the  only  real  adapta¬ 
tions  in  nature. 

Exactly  in  the  same  way  artificial  selection  isolates  and 
preserves  some  elementary  species,  while  it  destroys 
others.  Of  course  the  time  is  not  sufficient  to  secure  new 
mutations,  or  at  least  these  are  only  rare  at  present,  and 
their  occurrence  is  doubtful  in  historic  periods.  Apart 
from  this  unavoidable  difference  the  analogy  between 
natural  and  artificial  selection  appears  to  me  to  be  very 
striking. 

This  form  of  selection  may  be  termed  selection  between 
species.  Opposed  to  it  stands  the  selection  within  the  ele¬ 
mentary  species  or  variety.  It  has  of  late  alone  come  to 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


277 


be  known  as  selection,  though  in  reality  it  does  not  de¬ 
serve  this  distinction.  I  have  already  detailed  the  his¬ 
torical  evidence  which  gives  preference  to  selection  be¬ 
tween  species.  The  process  can  best  be  designated  by 
the  name  of  intra-specific  selection,  .if  it  is  understood 
that  the  term  intra-specific  is  meant  to  apply  to  the  con¬ 
ception  of  small  or  elementary  species. 

I  do  not  wish  to  propose  new  terms,  but  I  think  that1 
the  principal  differences  might  better  become  understood 
by  the  introduction  of  the  word  election  into  the  discus¬ 
sion  of  questions  of  heredity.  Election  meant  formerly 
the  preferential  choice  of  single  individuals,  while  the 
derivation  of  the  word  selection  points  to  a  segregation 
of  assemblies  into  their  larger  parts.  Or  to  state  it  in  a 
shorter  way,  individual  selection  is  exactly  what  was  for¬ 
merly  termed  selection.  Choosing  one  man  from  among 
thousands  is  to  select  him,  but  a  select  party  is  a  group 
of  chosen  persons.  There  would  be  no  great  difficulty 
in  the  introduction  of  the  word  election,  as  breeders  are 
already  in  the  habit  of  calling  their  choice  individuals 
“  elite,”  at  least  in  the  case  of  beets  and  of  cereals. 

This  intra-specific  selection  affords  a  second  point  for 
the  comparison  between  natural  and  artificial  processes. 
This  case  is  readily  granted  to  be  more  difficult  than  the 
first,  but  there  cannot  be  the  slightest  doubt  that  it  is  due 
to  strongly  comparable  causes.  In  practice  this  process 
is  scarcely  second  in  importance  to  the  selection  between 
species,  and  in  numerous  cases  it  rests  upon  it,  and  crowns 
it,  bringing  the  isolated  forms  up  to  their  highest  possible 
degree  of  usefulness.  In  nature  it  does  quite  the  same, 
adapting  strains  of  individuals  to  the  local  conditions  of 
their  environment.  Improved  races  do  not  generally  last 
very  long  in  practice;  sooner  or  later  they  are  surpassed 
by  new  selections.  Exactly  so  we  may  imagine  the  agency 
of  natural  intra-specific  selection.  It  produces  the  local 
races,  the  marks  of  which  disappear  as  soon  as  the  special 
external  conditions  cease  to  act.  It  is  responsible  only 
for  the  smallest  lateral  branches  of  the  pedigree,  but  has 
nothing  in  common  with  the  evolution  on  the  main  stems. 
It  is  of  very  subordinate  importance. 

These  assertions,  of  course,  are  directly  opposed  to  the 


278 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


current  run  of  scientific  belief,  but  they  are  supported  by 
facts.  A  considerable  part  of  the  evidence  has  already 
been  dealt  with  and  for  our  closing  discussion  only  an 
exact  comparison  remains  to  be  made  between  the  two 
detailed  types  of  intra-specific  selection.  In  coming  to 
this  I  will  first  dwell  upon  some  intermediate  types  and 
conclude  with  a  critical  discussion  of  the  features  of 
artificial  selection,  which  to  my  mind  prove  the  invalidity 
of  the  conclusions  drawn  from  it  in  behalf  of  an  explana¬ 
tion  of  the  processes  of  nature. 

Natural  selection  occurs  not  only  in  the  wild  state,  but 
is  also-  active  in  cultivated  fields.  Here  it  regulates  the 
struggle  of  the  selected  varieties  and  improved  races  with 
the  older  types,  and  even  with  the  wild  species.  In  a 
previous  lecture  I  have  detailed  the  rapid  increase  of  the 
wild-oats  in  certain  years,  and  described  the  experiments 
of  Risler  and  Rimpau  in  the  running  out  of  select  varie¬ 
ties.  The  agency  is  always  the  same.  The  preferred 
forms,  which  gave  a  larger  harvest,  were  formerly  more 
sensitive  to  injurious  influences,  more  dependent  on  rich 
manure  and  on  adequate  treatment.  The  native  varieties 
have  therefore  the  advantage,  when  climatic  or  cultural 
conditions  are  unfavorable  for  the  fields  at  large.  They 
suffer  in  a  minor  degree,  and  are  thereby  enabled  to 
propagate  themselves  afterwards  more  rapidly  and  to 
defeat  the  finer  types.  This  struggle  for  life  is  a  con¬ 
stant  one,  and  can  easily  be  followed,  whenever  the  com¬ 
position  of  a  strain  is  noted  in  successive  years.  It  is 
well  appreciated  by  breeders  and  farmers,  because  it  is 
always  liable  to  counteract  their  endeavors  and  to  claim 
their  utmost  efforts  to  keep  their  races  pure.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  exactly  the  same  struggle  exempt  from 
man’s  intrusion  is  fought  out  in  the  wild  state. 

Local  races  of  wild  plants  have  not  been  the  object 
for  field-observations  recently.  Some  facts,  however,  are 
known  concerning  them.  On  the  East  Friesian  Islands  in 
the  North  Sea  the  flowers  are  strikingly  larger  and  bright¬ 
er  colored  than  those  of  the  same  species  on  the  neigh¬ 
boring  continent.  This  local  •  difference  is  ascribed  by 
Behrens  to  a  more  severe  selection  by  the  pollinating 
insects  in  consequence  of  their  lesser  frequency  on  these 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


2  79 


very  windy  isles.  Seeds  of  the  pines  from  the  Hima¬ 
layas  yield  cold-resisting  young  plants  if  gathered  from 
trees  in  a  high  altitude,  while  the  seeds  of  the  same  spe¬ 
cies  from  lower  regions  yield  more  sensitive  seedlings. 
Similar  instances  are  afforded  by  Rhododendron  and  other 
mountain  species.  According  to  Cieslar  corresponding 
differences  are  shown  by  seeds  of  firs  and  larches  from 
alpine  and  lowland  provinces. 

Such  changes  are  directly  dependent  on  external  in¬ 
fluences.  This  is  especially  manifest  in  experiments  en¬ 
tailing  extensive  cultures  in  higher  or  in  more  northern 
regions.  The  shorter  summer  is  a  natural  agent  of  selec¬ 
tion;  it  excludes  all  individuals  which  cannot  ripen  their 
seeds  during  so  short  a  period.  Only  the  short-lived 
ones  survive.  Schiibeler  made  very  striking  experiments 
with  corn  and  other  different  cereals,  and  has  succeeded 
in  making  their  culture  possible  in  regions  of  Norway 
where  it  formerly  failed.  In  the  district  of  Christiania, 
corn  had  within  some  few  years  reduced  its  lifetime  from 
123  to  90  days,  yielding  smaller  stems  and  fewer  kernels, 
but  still  sufficient  to  make  its  culture  profitable  under  the 
existing  conditions.  This  change  was  not  permanent, 
but  was  observed  to  diminish  rapidly  and  to  disappear 
finally,  whenever  the  Norwegian  strain  was  cultivated  in 
the  southern  part  of  Germany.  It  was  a  typical  im¬ 
proved  race,  dependent  on  continual  selection  by  the 
short  summers  which  had  produced  it.  Similar  results 
have  been  reached  by  Von  Wettstein  in  the  compari¬ 
son  of  sports  of  flax  from  different  countries.  The  an¬ 
alogy  between  such  cultivated  local  races  and  the  local 
races  of  nature  is  quite  striking.  The  practice  of  seed- 
exchange  rests  for  a  large  part  on  the  experience  that 
the  characters,  acquired  under  the  definite  climatic  and 
cultural  conditions  of  some  select  regions,  hold  good  for 
one  or  two,  and  sometimes  even  more  generations,  before 
they  decrease  to  practical  uselessness.  The  Probstei,  the 
Hanna  and  other  districts  owe  their  wealth  to  this  tem¬ 
porary  superiority  of  their  wheat  and  other  cereals. 

Leaving  these  intermediate  forms  of  selection,  we  now 
come  to  our  principal  point.  It  has  already  been  dis¬ 
cussed  at  some  length  in  our  last  lecture,  but  needs  fur- 


28o 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


ther  consideration.  It  is  the  question  whether  intra¬ 
specific  selection  may  be  regarded  as  a  cause  of  lasting 
and  ever-increasing  improvement.  This  is  assumed  by 
those  biologists  who  consider  fluctuating  variability  as 
the  main  source  of  progression  in  the  organic  world. 
But  the  experience  of  the  breeders  does  not  support  this 
view,  since  the  results  of  practice  prove  that  selection 
according  to  a  constant  standard  soon  reaches  a  limit 
which  it  is  not  capable  of  transgressing.  In  order  to 
attain  further  improvements  the'  method  of  selection  itself 
must  be  improved.  A  better  and  sharper  method  assures 
the  choice  of  more  valuable  representatives  of  the  race, 
even  if  these  must  be  sought  for  in  far  larger  numbers 
of  individuals,  as  is  indicated  by  the  law  of  Quetelet'. 

Continuous  or  even  prolonged  improvement  of  a  culti¬ 
vated  race  is  not  the  result  of  frequently  repeated  selec¬ 
tion,  but  of  the  improvement  of  the  standard  of  appre¬ 
ciation.  Nature,  as  we  know,  changes  her  standard  only 
from  time  to  time  in  consequence  of  the  migrations  of 
the  species,  or  of  local  changes  of  climate.  Afterwards 
the  new  standard  remains  unchanged  for  centuries. 

Selection,  according  to  a  constant  standard,  reaches  its 
results  in  few  generations.  The  experience  of  Van 
Mons  and  other  breeders  of  apples  shows  how  soon  the 
limit  of  size  and  lusciousness  may  be  attained.  Vil- 
morin’s  experiments  with  wild  carrots  and  those  of  Car- 
riere  with  radishes  lead  to  the  same  conclusion  as  re¬ 
gards  roots.  Improvements  of  flowers  in  size  and  color 
are  usually  easy  and  rapid  in  the  beginning,  but  an  im¬ 
passable  limit  is  soon  reached.  Numerous  other  instances 
could  be  given. 

Contrasted  with  these  simple  cases  is  the  method  of 
selecting  sugar-beets.  More  than  once  I  have  alluded 
to  this  splendid  example  of  the  influence  of  man  upon 
domestic  races,  and  tried  to  point  out  how  little  support 
it  affords  to  the  current  scientific  opinion  concerning  the 
power  of  natural  selection.  For  this  reason  it  is  inter¬ 
esting  to  see  how  a  gradual  development  of  the  methods 
of  selection  has  been,  from  the  very  outset,  one  of  the 
chief  aims  of  the  breeders.  None  of  them  doubts  that  an 
improvement  of  the  method  alone  is  adequate  to  obtain 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


281 


results.  This  result,  in  the  main,  is  the  securing  of  a 
few  per  cent,  more  of  sugar,  a  change  hardly  compara¬ 
ble  with  the  progress  in  evolution,  which  our  theories  are 
destined  to  explain. 

Vilmorin’s  original  method  was  a  very  simple  one. 
Polarization  was  still  undiscovered  at  his  time.  He  de¬ 
termined  the  specific  weight  of  his  beets,  either  by  weigh¬ 
ing  them  as  a  whole,  or  by  using  a  piece  cut  from  the 
base  of  the  roots  and  deprived  of  its  bark,  in  order  to 
weigh  only  the  sugar-tissues.  The  pieces  were  floated  in 
solutions  of  salt,  which  were  diluted  until  the  pieces  be¬ 
gan  to  sink.  Their  specific  weight  at  that  moment  was 
determined  and  considered  to  be  a  measure  of  the  cor¬ 
responding  value  of  the  beet.  This  principle  was  after¬ 
wards  improved  in  two  ways.  The  first  was  a  selection 
after  the  salt-solution-method,  but  performed  on  a  large 
scale.  After  some  few  determinations,  a  solution  was 
made  of  such  strength  as  to  allow  the  greater  number 
of  the  beets  to  float,  and  only  the  best  to  sink  down.  In 
large  vessels  thousands  of  beets  could  be  tested  in  this 
way,  to  select  a  few  of  the  very  heaviest.  The  alternate 
improvement  was  the  determination  of  the  specific  weight 
of  the  sap,  pressed  out  from  the  tissue.  It  was  more 
tedious  and  more  expensive,  but  more  direct,  as  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  the  air-cavities  of  the  tissue  was  excluded. 
It  prepared  the  way  for  polarization. 

This  was  introduced  about  the  year  1874  in  Germany, 
and  soon  became  generally  accepted.  It  allowed  the 
amount  of  sugar  to  be  measured  directly,  and  with  but 
slight  trouble.  Thousands  of  beets  could  be  tested  yearly 
by  this  method,  and  the  best  selected  for  the  production 
of  seed.  In  some  factories  a  standard  percentage  is  de¬ 
termined  by  previous  inquiries,  and  the  mass  of  the  beets 
is  tested  only  by  it.  In  others  the  methods  of  taking 
samples  and  clearing  the  sap  have  been  improved  so  far 
as  to  allow  the  exact  determination  of  three  hundred 
thousand  polarization-values  of  beets  within  a  few  weeks. 
Such  figures  give  the  richest  material  for  statistical  stud¬ 
ies,  and  at  once  indicate  the  best  roots,  while  they  enable 
the  breeder  to  change  his  standard  in  accordance  with 
the  results  at  any  time.  Furthermore  they  allow  the 


2  82 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


mass  of  the  beets  to  be  divided  into  groups  of  different 
quality,  and  to  produce,  besides  the  seeds  for  the  con¬ 
tinuation  of  the  race,  a  first-class  and  second-class  product 
and  so  on.  In  the  factory  of  Messrs.  Kuhn  &  Co.,  at 
Naarden,  Holland,  the  grinding  machine  has  been  marked¬ 
ly  improved,  so  as  to  tear  all  cell-walls  asunder,  open 
all  cells,  and  secure  the  whole  of  the  sap  within  less  than 
a  minute,  and  without  heating. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  go  into  further  details,  or  to 
describe  the  simultaneous  changes  that  have  been  ap¬ 
plied  to  the  culture  of  the  elite  strains.  The  detailed 
features  suffice  to  show  that  the  chief  care  of  the  breeder 
in  this  case  is  a  continuous  amelioration  of  the  method 
of  selecting.  It  is  manifest  that  the  progression  of  the 
race  is  in  the  main  due  to  great'  technical  improvements, 
and  not  solely  to  the  repetition  of  the  selection. 

Similar  facts  may  be  seen  on  all  the  great  lines  of 
industrial  selection.  An  increasing  appreciation  of  all 
the  qualities  of  the  selected  plants  is  the  common  feature. 
Morphological  characters,  and  the  capacity  of  yielding 
the  desired  products,  are  the  first  points  that  strike  the 
breeder.  The  relation  to  climate  and  the  dependence  on 
manure  soon  follow,  but  the  physiological  and  chemical 
sides  of  the  problem  are  usually  slow  of  recognition  in 
the  methods  of  selection.  When  visiting  Mr.  de  Vil- 
morin  at  Paris  some  years  ago,  I  inspected  his  labora¬ 
tory  for  the  selection  of  potatoes.  In  the  method  in  use, 
the  tubers  were  rubbed  to  pulp  and  the  starch  was  ex¬ 
tracted  and  measured.  A  starch-percentage  figure  was 
determined  for  each  plant,  and  the  selection  of  the  tubers 
for  planting  was  founded  upon  this  result.  In  the  same 
way  wheat  has  been  selected  by  Dippe  at  Quedlinburg, 
first  by  a  determination  of  its  nitrogenous  contents  in 
general,  and  secondly  by  the  amount  of  the  substances 
which  determine  its  value  for  baking  purposes. 

The  celebrated  rye  of  Schlanstedt  was  produced  by  the 
late  Mr.  Rimpau  in  a  similar  manner  and  was  put  on  the 
market  between  1880  and  1890  and  was  received  with 
great  favor  throughout  central  Europe,  especially  in  Ger¬ 
many  and  in  France.  It  is  a  tall  variety,  with  vigorous 
stems  and  very  long  heads,  the  kernels  of  which  are 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


283 


nearly  double  the  size  of  those  of  the  ordinary  rye,  and 
are  seen  protruding,  when  ripe,  from  between  the  scales 
of  the  spikelets.  It  is  unfit  for  poor  soils,  but  is  one  of 
the  very  best  varieties  for  soils  of  medium  fertility,  in 
a  temperate  climate.  It  is  equal  in  the  production  of 
grain  to  the  best  French  sorts,  but  far  surpassing  them 
in  its  amount  of  straw.  It  was  perfected  at  the  farm  of 
Schlanstedt  very  slowly,  according  to  the  current  con¬ 
ceptions  of  the  period.  The  experiment  was  started  in 
the  year  1866,  at  which  time  Rimpau  collected  the  most 
beautiful  heads  from  among  his  fields,  and  sowed  their 
kernels  in  his  experiment-garden.  From  this  first  culture 
the  whole  race  was  derived.  Every  year  the  best  ears  of 
the  strain  were  chosen  for  repeated  culture,  under  ex¬ 
perimental  care,  while  the  remainder  was  multiplied  in 
a  field  to  furnish  the  seeds  for  large  and  continually  in¬ 
creasing  areas  of  his  farms. 

Two  or  three  years  were  required  to  produce  the  quan¬ 
tity  of  seed  of  each  kind  required  for  all  the  fields  of 
Schlanstedt.  The  experiment-garden,  which  through  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Rimpau  I  had  the  good  fortune  of  visit¬ 
ing  more  than  once  between  1875  and  1878,  was  situated 
in  the  middle  of  his  farm,  at  some  distance  from  the 
dwellings.  Of  course  it  was  treated  with  more  care,  and 
especially  kept  in  better  conditions  of  fertility  than  was 
possible  for  the  fields  at  large.  A  continued  study  of  the 
qualities  and  exigencies  of  the  elite  plants  accompanied 
this  selection,  and  gave  the  means  of  gradually  increasing 
the  standard.  Resistance  against  disease  was  observed 
and  other  qualities  were  ameliorated  in  the  same  manner. 
Mr.  Rimpau  repeatedly  told  me  that  he  was  most  anxious 
not  to  overlook  any  single  character,  because  he  feared 
that'  if  any  of  them  might  become  selected  in  the  wrong 
way,  perchance  unconsciously,  the  whole  strain  might  suf¬ 
fer  to  such  a  degree  as  to  make  all  the  other  ameliorations 
quite  useless.  With  this  purpose  the  number  of  plants 
per  acre  was  kept  nearly  the  same  as  those  in  the  fields, 
and  the  size  of  the  culture  was  large  enough  every  year 
to  include  the  best  kernels  of  quite  a  number  of  heads. 
These  were  never  separated,  and  exact  individual  pedi¬ 
grees  were  not  included  in  the  plan.  This  mixture  seemed 


284 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


to  have  the  advantage  of  keeping  up  an  average  value 
of  the  larger  number  of  the  characters,  which  either 
from  their  nature  or  from  their  apparent  unimportance  had 
necessarily  to  be  neglected. 

After  ten  years  of  continuous  labor,  the  rye  of  Rimpau 
caught  the  attention  of  his  neighbors,  being  manifestly 
better  than  that  of  ordinary  sowings.  Originally  he  had 
made  his  cultures  for  the  improvement  of  his  own  fields 
only.  Gradually,  however,  he  began  to  sell  his  product 
as  seed  to  others,  though  he  found  the  difference  still 
very  slight.  After  ten  years  more,  about  1886,  he  was 
able  to  sell  all  his  rye  as  seed,  thereby  making  of  course 
large  profits.  It  is  now  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  best 
sorts,  though  in  his  last  letter  Mr.  Rimpau  announced 
to  me  that  the  profits  began  to  decline  as  other  selected 
varieties  of  rye  became  known.  The  limit  of  productive¬ 
ness  was  reached,  and  to  surmount  this,  selection  had 
to  be  begun  again  from  some  new  and  better  starting 
point. 

This  new  starting  point  invokes  quite  another  principle 
of  selection,  a  principle  which  threatens  to  make  the  con¬ 
trast  between  artificial  and  natural  selection  still  greater. 
In  fact  it  is  nothing  new,  being  in  use  formerly  in  the 
selection  of  domestic  animals,  and  having  been  applied 
by  Vilmorin  to  his  sugar-beets  more  than  half  a  century 
ago.  Why  it  should  ever  have  been  overlooked  and  neg¬ 
lected  in  the  selection  of  sugar-beets  now  is  not  clear. 

The  principle  in  itself  is  very  simple.  It  agrees  that 
the  visible  characters  of  an  animal  or  a  plant  are  only 
an  imperfect  measure  for  its  hereditary  qualities,  instead 
of  being  the  real  criterion  to  be  relied  upon,  as  is  the 
current  belief.  It  further  reasons  that  a  direct  apprecia¬ 
tion  of  the  capacity  of  inheritance  can  only  be  derived 
from  the  observation  of  the  inheritance  itself.  Hence  it 
concludes  that  the  average  value  of  the  offspring  is  the 
only  real  standard  by  which  to  judge  the  representatives 
of  a  race  and  to  found  selection  upon. 

These  statements  are  so  directly  opposed  to  views  prev¬ 
alent  among  plant-breeders,  that  it  seems  necessary  to 
deal  with  them  from  the  theoretical  and  experimental 
as  well  as  from  the  practical  side. 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


285 


The  theoretical  arguments  rest  on  the  division  of  the 
fluctuating  variability  into  the  two  large  classes  of  indi¬ 
vidual  or  embryonic,  and  of  partial  deviations.  We  have 
dealt  with  this  division  at  some  length  in  the  previous 
lecture.  It  will  be  apparent  at  once,  if  we  choose  a  defi¬ 
nite  example.  Let  us  ask  what  is  the  real  significance 
of  the  percentage-figure  of  a  single  plant  in  sugar-beets. 
This  value  depends  in  the  first  place,  on  the  strain  or 
family  from  which  the  beet  has  been  derived,  but  this 
primary  point  may  be  neglected  here,  because  it  is  the 
same  for  all  the  beets  of  any  lot,  and  determines  the 
average,  around  which  all  are  fluctuating. 

The  deviation  of  the  percentage-figure  of  a  single  beet 
depends  on  two  main  groups  of  external  causes.  First 
come  those  that  have  influenced  the  young  germs  of  the 
plant  during  it's  most  sensitive  period,  when  still  an  em¬ 
bryo  within  the  ripening  seed.  They  give  a  new  limita¬ 
tion  to'  the  average  condition,  which  once  and  forever 
becomes  fixed  for  this  special  individual.  In  the  second 
place  the  young  seedling  is  affected  during  the  develop¬ 
ment  of  its  crown,  of  leaves,  and  of  its  roots,  by  numerous 
factors,  which  cannot  change  this  average,  but  may  in¬ 
duce  deviations  from  it,  increasing  or  decreasing  the 
amount  of  sugar,  which  will  eventually  be  laid  down  in 
the  root.  The  best  young  beet  may  be  injured  in  many 
ways  during  periods  of  its  lifetime,  and  produce  less  sugar 
than  could  reasonably  be  expected  from  it.  It  may  be 
surpassed  by  beets  of  inferior  constitution,  but  growing 
under  more  favorable  circumstances. 

Considered  from  this  point  of  view  the  result  of  the 
polarization-test  is  not  a  single  value,  but  consists  of  at 
least  two  different  factors.  It  may  be  equal  to  the  sum 
of  these,  or  to  their  difference,  according  to  the  question 
whether  the  external  conditions  on  the  field  were  locally 
and  individually  favorable  or  unfavorable.  A  large 
amount  of  sugar  may  be  due  to-  high  individual  value, 
with  slight  subsequent  deviation  from  it,  or  to  a  less 
prominent  character  combined  with  an  extreme  subordi¬ 
nate  deviation. 

Hence  it  is  manifest  that  even  the  results  of  such  a 
highly  improved  technical  method  do  not  deserve  the 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


confidence  usually  put  in  them.  They  are  open  to  doubt, 
and  the  highest  figures  do  not  really  indicate  the  best 
representatives  of  the  race.  In  order  to  convey  this  con¬ 
ception  to  you  in  a  still  stronger  manner,  let  us  consider 
the  partial  variability  as  it  usually  shows  itself.  The 
various  leaves  of  a  plant  may  noticeably  vary  in  size,  the 
flowers  in  color,  the  fruits  in  flavor.  They  fluctuate 
around  an  average,  which  assumes  to  nearly  represent 
the  true  value  of  the  whole  plant.  But  if  we  were  allowed 
to  measure  only  one  leaf,  or  to  estimate  only  one  flower 
or  fruit,  and  be  compelled  to  conclude  from  it  the  worth 
of  the  whole  plant,  what  mistakes  we  could  make  !  We 
might  indeed  hit  upon  an  average  case,  but  we  might  as 
easily  get  an  extreme,  either  in  the  way  of  increase  or  of 
decrease.  In  both  cases  our  judgment  would  be  badly 
founded.  For  who  can  assure  us  that  the  single  root  of 
a  given  beet  is  an  average  representative  of  the  partial 
variability  ?  The  fact  that  there  is  only  one  main  root 
does  not  prove  anything.  An  annual  plant  has  only  one 
stem,  but  a  perennial  species  has  many.  The  average 
height  of  the  last  is  a  reliable  character,  but  the  casual 
height  of  the  former  is  very  uncertain. 

So  it  is  with  the  beets.  A  beet  may  be  divided  by  its 
buds  and  give  quite  a  number  of  roots,  belonging  to  the 
same  individual.  These  secondary  roots  have  been  tested 
for  the  amount  of  sugar,  and  found  to  exhibit  a  manifest 
degree  of  variability.  If  the  first  root  corresponded  to 
their  average,  it  might  be  considered  as  reliable,  but  if 
not  anyone  will  grant  that  an  average  is  more  reliable 
than  a  single  determination.  Deviations  have  as  a  fact 
been  observed,  proving  the  validity  of  our  assertion. 

These  considerations  at  once  explain  the  disappoint¬ 
ment  so  often  experienced  by  breeders.  Some  facts  may 
be  quoted  from  the  Belgian  professor  of  agriculture  at 
Gembloux,  the  late  Mr.  Laurent.  He  selected  two  beets 
from  a  strain,  with  the  exceptional  amount  of  23  per 
cent,  sugar,  but  kept  their  offspring  separate  and  analyzed 
some  sixty  of  each.  In  both  groups  the  average  was 
only  11  —  12  per  cent.,  the  extremes  not  surpassing  14  — 
15  per  cent.  Evidently  the  choice  was  a  bad  one,  not¬ 
withstanding  the  high  polarization  value  of  the  parent. 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


287 


Analogous  cases  are  often  observed,  and  my  countrymen, 
Messrs.  Kuhn  &  Co.,  go  so  far  as  to  doubt  all  excessive 
variants,  and  to  prefer  beets  with  high  but  less  extraor¬ 
dinary  percentages.  Such  are  to  be  had  in  larger  num¬ 
bers  and  their  average  has  a  good  chance  of  exemption 
from  a  considerable  portion  of  the  doubts  adhering  to 
single  excessive  cases. 

It  is  curious  to  note  here  what  Louis  Vilmorin  taught 
concerning  this  point  in  the  year  1850.  I  quote  his  own 
words :  “  I  have  observed  that  in  experiments  on  heredi¬ 
ty  it  is  necessary  to  individualize  as  much  as  possible. 
So  I  have  taken  to  the  habit  of  saving  and  sowing  sep¬ 
arately  the  seeds  of  every  individual  beet,  and  I  have 
always  found  that  among  the  chosen  parent-plants  some 
had  an  offspring  with  a  better  average  yield  than  others. 
At  the  end  I  have  come  to  consider  this  character  only 
as  a  standard  for  amelioration.” 

The  words  are  clear  and  their  author  is  the  originator 
of  the  whole  method  of  plant-breeding  selection.  Yet 
the  principle  has  been  abandoned,  and  nearly  forgotten 
under  the  impression  that  polarization  alone  was  the  su¬ 
preme  guide  to  be  relied  upon.  However,  if  I  under¬ 
stand  the  signs  rightly,  the  time  is  soon  coming  when 
Vilmorin’s  experience  will  become  once  more  the  founda¬ 
tion  for  progress  in  breeding. 

Leaving  the  theoretical  and  historical  aspects  of  the 
problem,  we  will  now  recall  the  experimental  evidence, 
given  in  a  former  lecture,  dealing  with  the  inheritance 
of  monstrosities.  I  have  shown  that  in  many  instances 
monstrosities  constitute  double  races,  consisting  of  mon¬ 
strous  and  of  normal  individuals.  At  first  sight  one  might 
be  induced  to  surmise  that  the  monstrous  ones  are  the 
true  representatives  of  the  race,  and  that  their  seeds 
should  be  exclusively  sown,  in  order  to  keep  the  strain 
up  to  its  normal  standard.  One  might  even  suppose  that 
the  normal  individuals,  or  the  so-called  atavists,  had 
really  reverted  to  the  original  type  of  the  species  and 
that  their  progeny  would  remain  true  to  this. 

My  experiments,  however,  have  shown  that  quite  the 
contrary  is  the  case.  No  doubt,  the  seeds  of  the  mon¬ 
strous  specimens  are  trustworthy,  but  the  seeds  of  the 


288 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


atavists  are  not  less  so.  Fasciated  hawkweeds  and  twist¬ 
ed  teasels  gave  the  same  average  constitution  of  the  off¬ 
spring  from  highly  monstrous,  and  from  apparently 
wholly  normal  individuals.  In  other  words  the  fullest 
development  of  the  visible  characteristic  was  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  an  indication  of  better  hereditary  ten¬ 
dencies.  In  unfavorable  years  a  whole  generation  of  a 
fasciated  race  may  exhibit  exclusively  normal  plants, 
without  transmitting  a  trace  of  this  anomaly  to  the  fol¬ 
lowing  generation.  As  soon  as  the  suitable  conditions 
return,  the  monstrosity  reassumes  its  full  development. 

The  accordance  of  these  facts  with  the  experience  of 
breeders  of  domestic  animals,  and  of  Louis  Vilmorin, 
and  with  the  result  of  the  theoretical  considerations  con¬ 
cerning  the  factors  of  fluctuation  has  led  me  to  suggest 
the  method  of  selecting,  which  I  have  made  use  of  in 
my  experiments  with  tricotyls  and  syncotyls. 

Seedling  variations  afford  a  means  of  counting  many 
hundreds  of  individuals  in  a  single  germinating  pan.  If 
seed  from  one  parent-plant  is  sown  only  in  each  pan,  a 
percentage-figure  for  the  amount  of  deviating  seedlings 
may  be  obtained.  These  figures  we  have  called  the 
hereditary  percentages.  I  have  been  able  to  select  the 
parent-plants  after  their  death  on  the  sole  ground  of 
these  values.  And  the  result  has  been  that  from  varieties 
which,  on  an  average,  exhibited  50  —  55  per  cent,  devi¬ 
ating  seedlings,  after  one  or  two  years  of  selection  this 
proportion  in  the  offspring  was  brought  up  to  about  90 
per  cent,  in  most  of  the  cases.  Phacelia  and  mercury 
with  tricotylous  seedlings,  and  the  common  sunflower 
with  connate  seed-leaves,  may  be  cited  as  instances. 

Besides  these  tests,  others  were  performed,  based  only 
on  the  visible  characters  of  the  seedlings.  The  result 
was  that  this  characteristic  was  almost  useless  as  a  cri¬ 
terion.  The  atavists  gave,  in  the  main,  nearly  the  same 
hereditary  percentages  as  the  tricotyls  and  syncotyls,  and 
their  extremes  were  in  each  case  far  better  constituted 
than  the  average  of  the  chosen  type.  Hence,  for  selec¬ 
tion  purposes,  the  atavists  must  be  considered  to  be  in 
no  way  inferior  to  the  typical  specimens. 

If  it  had  been  possible  to  apply  this  principle  to  twisted 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


289 


and  fasciated  plants,  and  perhaps  even  to  other  monstrosi¬ 
ties,  I  think  that  it  will  readily  be  granted  that  the  chance 
of  bringing  even  these  races  up  to  a  percentage  of  90 
per  cent,  would  have  been  large  enough.  But  the  large 
size  of  the  cultures  required  for  the  counting  of  numer¬ 
ous  groups  of  offspring  in  the  adult  state  has  deterred 
me  from  making  such  trials.  Recently,  however,  I  have 
discovered  the  means  of  counting  these  anomalies  in  the 
sowing  pans,  and  so  I  hope  soon  to  be  able  to  give  direct 
experimental  proofs  of  this  assertion.  The  validity  of  the 
hereditary  percentage  as  a  standard  of  selection  has, 
within  the  last  few  years,  been  recognized  and  defended 
by  two  eminent  breeders,  W.  M.  Hays  in  this  country 
and  Von  Lochow  in  Germany.  Both  of  them  have  start¬ 
ed  from  the  experience  of  breeders  of  domestic  animals. 
Von  Lochow  applied  the  principle  to  rye.  He  first  showed 
how  fallacious  the  visible  characters  often  are.  For  in¬ 
stance  the  size  of  the  kernels  is  often  dependent  on  their 
number  in  the  head,  and  if  this  number  is  reduced  by  the 
injurious  varietal  mark  of  lacunae  (Liickigkeit),  the 
whole  harvest  will  rapidly  deteriorate  by  the  selection 
of  the  largest  kernels  from  varieties  which  are  not  quite 
free  from  this  hereditary  deficiency. 

In  order  to  estimate  the  value  of  his  rye-plants,  he 
gathers  the  seed  of  each  one  separately  and  sows  them 
in  rows.  Each  row  corresponds  to  a  parent-plant  and 
receives  200  or  150  seeds,  according  to  the  available 
quantity.  In  this  way  from  700  to  800  parent-plants  are 
tested  yearly.  Each  row  is  harvested  separately.  The 
number  of  plants  gives  the  average  measure  of  resistance 
to  frost,  this  being  the  only  important  cause  of  loss. 
Then  the  yield  in  grain  and  straw  is  determined  and 
calculated,  and  other  qualities  are  taken  into  considera¬ 
tion.  Finally  one  or  more  groups  stand  prominent  above 
all  others  and  are  chosen  for  the  continuation  of  the 
race.  All  other  groups  are  wholly  excluded  from  the 
“  elite,”  but  among  them  the  best  groups  and  the  very 
best  individuals  from  lesser  groups  are  considered  ade¬ 
quate  for  further  cultivation,  in  order  to  produce  the  com¬ 
mercial  product  of  the  race.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the 
rye  of  Von  Lochow  is  now  one  of  the  best  varieties,  and 
Vol.  XXIII.— 19 


2QO 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


even  surpasses  the  celebrated  variety  of  Schlanstedt.  It 
was  only  after  obtaining  proof  of  the  validity  of  his 
method  that  Von  Lochow  decided  to  give  it  to  the  public. 

In  this  country  W.  M.  Hays,  of  the  Minnesota  Agri¬ 
cultural  Experiment  Station,  has  made  experiments  with 
wheat.  He  chose  a  hundred  grains  as  a  proper  number 
for  the  appreciation  of  each  pdrent-plant,  and  hence  has 
adopted  the  name  of  “  centgener  power  ”  for  the  heredi¬ 
tary  percentage. 

The  average  of  the  hundred  offspring  is  the  standard 
to  judge  the  parent  by.  Experience  shows  at  once  that 
this  average  is  not  at  all  proportional  to  the  visible 
qualities  of  the  parent.  Hence  the  conclusion  that  the 
yield  of  the  parent-plant  is  a  very  uncertain  indication 
of  its  value  as  a  parent  for  the  succeeding  generation. 
Only  the  parents  with  the  largest  power  in  the  centgener 
of  offspring  are  chosen,  while  all  others  are  wholly  dis¬ 
carded.  Afterwards  the  seeds  of  the  chosen  groups  are 
propagated  in  the  field  until  the  required  quantities  of 
seed  are  obtained. 

This  centgener  power,  or  breeding-ability,  is  tested  and 
compared,  for  the  various  parent-plants  as  to  yield,  grade, 
and  percentage  of  nitrogenous  content  in  the  grain,  and 
as  to  the  ability  of  the  plant  to  stand  erect,  resist  rust, 
and  other  important  qualities.  It  is  evident  that  by  this 
test  of  a  hundred  specimens  a  far  better  and  much  more 
reliable  determination  can  be  made  than  on  the  ground 
of  the  minutest  examination  of  one  single  plant.  From 
this  point  of  view  the  method  of  Hays  commands  atten¬ 
tion.  But  the  chief  advantage  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
a  direct  proof  of  that  which  it  is  desired  to  prove,  while 
the  visible  marks  give  only  very  indirect  information. 

Thus  the  results  of  the  men  of  practice  are  in  full 
accordance  with  those  of  theory  and  scientific  experi¬ 
ment,  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  they  open  the 
way  for  a  rapid  and  important  improvement.  Once  at¬ 
tained,  progress,  however,  will  be  dependent  on  the  selec¬ 
tion  principle,  and  the  hereditary  percentage,  or  cent¬ 
gener  power,  or  breeding-ability  must  be  determined  in 
each  generation  anew.  Without  this  the  race  would  soon 
regress  to  its  former  condition. 


HUGO  DE  VRIES 


29 1 


To  return  to  our  starting  point,  the  comparison  of  arti¬ 
ficial  and  natural  selection.  Here  we  are  at  once  struck 
by  the  fact  that  it  is  hardly  imaginable,  how  nature  can 
make  use  of  this  principle.  In  some  measure  the  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  best  centgener  will  manifestly  be  at  an  ad¬ 
vantage,  because  they  contain  more  fit  specimens  than 
the  other  groups.  But  the  struggle  for  existence  goes  on 
between  individuals,  and  not  between  groups  of  brethren 
against  groups  of  cousins.  In  every  group  the  best 
adapted  individuals  will  survive,  and  soon  the  breeding- 
differences  between  the  parents  vanish  altogether.  Mani¬ 
festly  they  can,  as  a  rule,  have  no  lasting  result  on  the 
issue  of  the  struggle  for  existence. 

If  now  we  remember  that  in  Darwin’s  time  the  feature, 
breeding-ability,  enjoyed  a  far  more  general  appreciation 
than  at  present,  and  that  Darwin  must  have  given  it  full 
consideration,  it  becomes  at  once  clear  that  this  old,  but 
recently  revived  principle,  is  not  adequate  to  support  the 
current  comparison  between  artificial  and  natural  selec¬ 
tion. 

In  conclusion,  summing  up  all  our  arguments,  we  may 
state  that  there  is  a  broad  analogy  between  breeding- 
selection  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word,  including  varie¬ 
ty-testing,  race-improvement  and  the  trial  of  the  breeding- 
ability  on  one  side,  and  natural  selection  on  the  other. 
This  analogy,  however,  points  to  the  importance  of  the 
selection  between  elementary  species,  and  the  very  subor¬ 
dinate  role  of  intra-specific  selection  in  nature.  It  strong¬ 
ly  supports  our  view  of  the  origin  of  species  by  muta¬ 
tion  instead  of  continuous  selection.  Or,  to  put  it  in  the 
terms  chosen  lately  by  Mr.  Arthur  Harris  in  a  friendly 
criticism  of  my  views:  “Natural  selection  may  explain 
the  survival  of  the  fittest,  but  it  cannot  explain  the  arrival 
of  the  fittest.” — Species  and  Varieties  (Copyright  1904  by 
the  Open  Court  Publishing  Company). 


w 


*§p*^j|^ACE,  Robert,  an  English  clergyman  and  poet; 

born  on  the  island  of  Jersey  about  1124;  died 
at  Caen,  France,  about  1174.  His  father  was 
one  of  the  barons  who  accompanied  William  of  Nor¬ 
mandy  in  his  invasion  of  England,  and  seems  to  have 
received  large  possessions  in  the  conquered  country. 
He  speaks  of  himself  as  a  clerclisant ,  “  reading  clerk,” 
and  seems  to  have  resided  mainly  in  France,  though 
sometimes  in  England,  and  near  the  close  of  his  life 
was  made  Canon  of  Bayeux  by  Henry  II.,  great- 
grandson  of  William  the  Conqueror.  Wace  wrote  in 
Norman-French,  his  principal  poem  being  Le  Roman 
de  Brut ,  “  The  Romance  of  Brutus,”  and  Le  Roman 
de  Ron,  “  The  Romance  of  Rollo,”  the  first  Duke  of 
Normandy.  The  Roman  de  Brut  is  essentially  a  met¬ 
rical  translation  of  the  Latin  History  of  Britain  by 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  in  which  the  line  of  British 
kings  is  traced  down  from  the  legendary  Brutus  of 
Troy,  grandson  of  Hfneas,  to  Cadwallader,  King  of 
Wessex,  who  died  a.  d.  688, 

Wace’s  Brut  was  translated  into  Anglo-Saxon  by 
Layamon,  a  nearly  contemporary  ecclesiastic  of  Wor¬ 
cestershire,  who  also  made  large  additions,  more  than 
doubling  the  15,000  lines  of  Wace’s  poem.  This  Brut 

(292) 


ROBERT  WACE 


293 


of  Layamon,  from  which  the  subjoined  is  taken,  is 
of  special  philological  interest  as  showing  how  the 
Anglo-Saxon  language  was  spoken  in  Middle  England 
about  the  year  1200.  The  accompanying  rendering 
into  more  modern  English  will  serve  the  purpose  of 
a  glossary.  Layamon  thus  speaks  of  himself  and  his 
master,  W ace : 


LAYAMON  AND  HIS  PREFACE. 


Lie  nom  tha  Englisca  hoc 

He  took  the  English  book 
Tha  makede  Seint  Beda  ; 


That  Saint  Beda  made ; 

An  odier  he  nom  on  Latin, 

Another  he  took  in  Latin, 
Tha  makede  Seinte  Albin, 

That  Saint  Albin  made, 


And  the  feire  Austin, 

And  the  fair  Austin, 

The  fulluht  broute  hider  in. 

That  baptism  brought  hither  in. 
Boc  he  mom  the  thridde, 

The  third  book  he  took, 


Leid  ther  amidden, 

Laid  there  in  midst 
Tha  makede  a  Frenchis  clerc, 

That  made  a  French  clerk, 


Wace  was  ihoten, 


W ace  was  he  flight, 


The  wel  ccuthe  writen ; 

That  well  could  write; 

And  he  hoc  gef  thare  cethelen 

And  he  it  gave  the  noble 
<2> 

Aelinor,  the  wes  Henries  quene, 

Eleanor  that  was  Henry's  queen, 


Thes  heyes  kinges. 

The  high  king's. 

Layamon  leide  theos  boc, 

Layamon  laid  these  books, 


294 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


And  tha  leaf  wende. 

And  the  leaves  turned, 
He  heom  leofliche  bi-heold ; 

He  then  lovingly  beheld; 

Lithe  him  beo  Drihten. 


Merciful  to  him  be  the  Lord. 
Fetheren  he  nom  mid  fingren, 

Feather  he  took  with  Ungers, 

And  fiede  on  boe-felle, 

And  wrote  on  book-skin, 


And  tha  sothe  word 


Sette  to-gathere 
And  tha  thre  boc 
Thrumde  to  ane. 


And  the  sooth  words 

Set  together 

And  the  three  books 


Compressed  into  one. 


'AGNER,  Charles,  a  Franco-German  clergy¬ 
man  and  philosopher;  born  in  Alsace  in  1855. 
He  was  graduated  from  the  Sorbonne  of 
Strasburg,  and  studied  at  Gottingen.  Since  1880  he 
has  resided  in  Paris,  where  as  a  liberal  evangelical 
preacher,  he  is  a  leader  in  an  organization  in  France 
called  “  The  Union  for  Moral  Action/’  which  he  de¬ 
scribes  as  a  “  laic  militant  order  for  private  and  social 
duty.”  His  works  include  The  Busy  Life  (1900)  ; 
The  Voice  of  Nature  (1901)  ;  The  Simple  Life 
(1902);  Wayside  Sermons  (1903);  My  Appeal  to 
America  (1904)  ;  and  Justice  (1905). 

Dr.  Wagner  won  world-wide  fame  by  the  publica¬ 
tion  of  The  Simple  Life  and  in  1904-5  visited  the 
United  States  to  more  fully  expound  the  doctrine  of 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


295 


his  philosophy.  In  the  preface  to  The  Simple  Life 
he  says : 

PREFACE  TO  THE  SIMPLE  LIFE. 

The  invalid,  undermined  by  fever  and  devoured  by 
thirst,  dreams  during  his  sleep  of  a  cool  brook  where  he 
bathes,  or  of  a  clear  fountain  where  he  drinks  in  great 
mouthfuls.  So,  in  the  complicated  agitation  of  modern 
existence,  our  wearied  souls  dream  of  simplicity. 

Is  that  which  we  call  bv  that  beautiful  name  a  bless- 
ing  disappeared  forever?  I  do  not  think  so.  If  sim¬ 
plicity  had  belonged  to  some  exceptional  circumstances, 
known  only  in  rare  epochs,  we  might  renounce  its  real¬ 
ization  for  the  present.  We  cannot  lead  civilization  back 
to  its  origin  any  more  than  we  can  lead  back  the  wide 
troubled  rivers  to  the  tranquil  valley  where  the  alder 
branches  droop  together  over  their  source. 

But  simplicity  does  not  depend  upon  any  certain  eco¬ 
nomic  or  social  conditions.  It  is  more  of  a  spirit  which 
can  animate  and  modify  lives  of  very  different  kinds. 
Far  from  being  obliged  to  pursue  it  with  impotent  regrets 
we  may,  I  affirm  it,  make  of  it  the  object  of  our  resolu¬ 
tions  and  the  aim  of  our  practical  energy. 

To  aspire  to  the  simple  life  is  to  rightly  aspire  to  the 
fulfilment  of  the  highest  human  destiny.  All  the  move¬ 
ments  of  humanity  toward  more  justice  and  more  light 
have  been  at  the  same  time  movements  toward  a  more 
simple  life.  And  the  antique  simplicity  in  arts,  man¬ 
ners  and  ideas  hold  for  us  their  incomparable  value  only 
because  it  has  been  able  to  give  a  powerful  relief  to  some 
essential  sentiments,  to  some  fixed  truths.  We  must  love 
that  simplicity  and  guard  it  piously.  But  he  will  have 
gone  but  the  hundredth  part  of  his  road  who  holds  to 
exterior  forms,  and  who  does  not  seek  to  realize  the  spirit. 
In  fact,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  be  simple  in  the  same 
ways  as  were  our  forbears,  and  we  can  only  remain  so, 
or  return  to  simplicity  in  the  same  spirit.  We  are  walk¬ 
ing  in  other  paths,  but  the  aim  of  humanity  is  funda¬ 
mentally  the  same.  It  is  always  the  polar  star  which 


296 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


directs  the  mariner,  no  matter  whether  he  is  embarked 
on  a  sailing  ship  or  a  steamer. 

To  advance  towards  this  aim  with  all  the  means  of 
which  we  can  dispose  is  the  most  important  thing,  to-day 
as  ever.  And  it  is  because  we  have  often  been  drawn 
aside  that  we  have  confused  and  complicated  our  lives. 

•  •••••••• 

If  I  could  succeed  in  causing  others  to  accept  with  me 
that  interior  knowledge  of  simplicity,  I  shall  not  have 
made  a  vain  effort.  Some  readers  will  think  that  such  an 
idea  should  be  incorporated  in  manners  and  education. 
They  will  begin  by  cultivating  it  in  themselves,  and  will 
make  the  sacrifice  of  a  few  of  those  habits  which  hinder 
us  from  being  men. 

Too  many  encumbering  futilities  separate  us  from  our 
ideal  of  truth,  justice  and  kindness  which  should  warm 
and  revive  our  hearts.  All  that  brushwood,  under  the 
pretext  of  furnishing  us  shelter,  us  and  our  happiness, 
has  ended  by  veiling  our  sunlight.  When  shall  we  have 
the  courage  to  oppose  the  deceptive  temptations  of  a  life 
as  complicated  as  unfruitful  with  the  answer  of  the  sage : 

“  Get  out  of  my  sunlight !  ” 

—  The  Simple  Life. 

PRIDE  AND  SIMPLICITY  IN  SOCIAL  RELATIONS. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to  prove  a  subject  better 
qualified  than  pride  to  prove  that  the  obstacles  to  a  better 
life,  stronger  and  more  peaceful,  are  more  in  ourselves 
than  in  circumstances.  The  diversity  and  above  all,  the 
contrast  of  social  situations,  inevitably  cause  all  sorts  of 
conflicts  to  surge  upon  us.  But  how  many  of  these  rela¬ 
tions  between  members  of  the  same  society  would  not  be, 
in  spite  of  all,  simplified  if  we  put  another  spirit  in  the 
frame  traced  in  external  necessities !  Let  us  be  well  per¬ 
suaded  that  it  is  not,  after  all  the  difference  in  classes, 
functions,  the  so  dissimilar  forms  of  our  destinies,  which 
embroil  men.  If  that  were  the  case  we  should  see  an 
idyllic  peace  reign  between  colleagues,  comrades,  and  all 
men  with  analogous  interests  and  similar  destiny.  Every 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


2QfJ 

one  knows,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  bitterest  quarrels 
are  those  which  arise  among  similar  beings,  and  that 
there  is  no  war  worse  than  civil  war.  But  what  hinders 
men  from  living  in  accord  is,  before  all,  pride.  Pride 
makes  man  like  a  hedge  hog,  which  cannot  touch  any  one 
without  wounding  him.  Let  us  spea'k  first  of  the  pride  of 
the  great  ones. 

What  displeases  me  in  the  rich  man  who  passes  in  Iris 
carriage,  is  not  his  equipage,  nor  his  toilette,  nor  the 
number  and  swiftness  of  his  domestic  service.  It  is  his 
scorn.  That  he  ha*s  a  great  fortune  does  not  wound  me 
unless  I  have  a  hateful  disposition,  but  that  he  throws 
mud  on  me,  rides  over  my  body,  shows  in  his  whole  atti¬ 
tude  that  I  count  for  nothing  in  his  eyes  because  I  am 
not  rich  like  him;  that  is  where  I  feel  the  hurt,  and  with 
good  reason*.  He  imposes  a  suffering  upon  me,  and  aftei 
all  a  suffering  is  quite  useless.  He  insults  me  and  humil¬ 
iates  me  gratuitously.  It  is  not  what  is  vulgar  in  him, 
but  what  there  is  the  noblest  in  me,  which  rises  in  face 
of  that  wounding  pride..  Do  not  accuse  me  of  envy,  for 
I  feel  none.  It  is  my  dignity  as  man  that  is  touched. 
It  is  useless  to  seek  far  to  illustrate  one’s  impressions. 
All  men  who  have  seen  life  have  had  many  experiences 
which  will  justify  our  words  in  their  eyes.  In  certain 
centers  devoted  to  material  interests,  pride  of  wealth  dom¬ 
inates  to  such  a  point  that  men  quote  each  other  as  they 
quote  values  on  the  exchange.  Esteem  is  measured  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  contents  of  the  strong-box.  Good  society 
is  composed  of  big  fortunes;  the  middle  class,  lesser  for¬ 
tunes.  Then  come  the  people  of  little  means,  and  those 
of  nothing.  On  all  occasions  they  act  upon  that  principle. 
And  he  who,  relatively  rich,  has  shown  his  disdain  for 
those  less  opulent  than  himself,  is  watered,  in  his  turn, 
with  the  disdain  of  his  superiors  in  fortune.  Thus  the 
rage  of  comparison  saps  from  summit  to  foundation. 
Such  a  center  is  as  though  prepared  to  order  for  the  cul¬ 
tivation  of  the  worst  sentiments;  but  it  is  not  the  riches, 
it  is  the  spirit  they  put  into  them  that  we  should  accuse. 
Some  rich  men  have  not  that  coarse  conception  —  above 
all,  those  who,  from  father  to  son,  are  accustomed  to  ease. 
But  they  forget  that  there  is  a  certain  delicacy  in  not 


298 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


causing  the  contrasts  to  be  too  marked.  Supposing  that 
there  is  no  harm  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  great  superfluity, 
is  it  indispensable  to  spread  out  this  superfluity,  to  shock 
the  eyes  of  those  who  have  not  the  necessaries,  and  to 
affix  this  luxury  close  to  poverty?  Good  taste  and  a  sort 
of  modesty  will  always  hinder  a  portly  man  from  speaking 
of  his  vigorous  appetite,  his  peaceful  slumber,  of  his  joy 
in  living,  by  the  side  of  some  one  who  is  fading  away  with 
consumption.  Many  rich  men  lack  tact,  and  sometimes 
by  that  they  lack  even  pity  and  prudence.  Are  they  not 
from  then  on  badly  inspired  in  complaining  of  the  envy 
of  others,  after  having  done  all  in  their  power  to  pro¬ 
voke  it? 

But  what  they  lack  most  is  discernment,  when  they  put 
their  pride  in  their  fortune,  or  when  they  let  themselves 
drift  unconsciously  with  the  seductions  of  luxury.  Firstly, 
it  is  to  fall  into  a  puerile  confusion  to  consider  riches  a 
personal  quality.  One  could  not  mistake,  in  a  fashion 
more  simple,  between  the  reciprocal  value  of  the  envelope 
and  its  contents.  I  do  not  wish  to  bear  too  heavily  on 
that  question;  it  is  too  painful.  And,  yet,  can  one  hinder 
oneself  from  saying  to  those  interested:  “Take  care;  do 
not  confound  what  you  possess  with  what  you  are.  Learn 
the  seamy  side  of  the  splendors  of  the  world,  that  you 
may  see  the  childishness  and  moral  misery  of  them  more 
forcibly.  Pride  in  truth  lays  traps  too  ridiculous  for  us. 
We  must  suspect  a  companion  which  makes  us  hateful  to 
our  neighbor  and  causes  us  to  lose  our  clearness  of 
vision.” 

Those  who  deliver  themselves  up  to  the  pride  of  wealth 
forget  another  point  —  and  the  most  important  of  all  — 
which  is,  that  to  possess  is  a  social  function.  Without 
doubt,  individual  property  is  as  legitimate  as  the  existence 
even  of  the  individual  and  as  his  liberty.  Those  two 
things  are  inseparable,  and  it  is  an  Utopia,  full  of  dangers, 
to  attack  such  elementary  bases  of  all  life.  But  the  indi¬ 
vidual  belongs  to  society  with  all  his  fibres,  and  all  he 
does  should  be  done  in  view  of  the  whole.  To  possess  is, 
therefore,  less  of  a  privilege,  which  it  pleases  him  to 
glorify,  than  a  charge  whose  gravity  he  feels.  Just  as  it 
requires  one  to  serve  an  apprenticeship,  often  difficult,  to 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


be  able  to  exercise  all  the  social  functions,  so  does  that 
function  which  is  called  riches  exact  an  apprenticeship. 
The  greater  part  of  the  people,  poor  or  rich,  imagine  that 
in  opulence  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  let  one’s  self  live. 
That  is  why  so  few  people  know  how  to  be  rich.  In  the 
hand  of  a  too  great  number  wealth  is,  according  to  a  jovial 
and  redoubtable  comparison  of  Luther’s,  like  a  harp  in  a 
donkey’s  hoofs  —  they  have  no  idea  of  how  to  use  it. 

•  •••••••  • 

So,  when  one  meets  a  man,  rich  and  simple  at  the  same 
time,  that  is  to  say,  who  considers  his  riches  as  a  means 
of  filling  his  humane  mission,  we  should  respectfully  salute 
him,  for  he  is  certainly  somebody.  He  has  conquered 
obstacles,  surmounted  trials,  and  triumphed  in  the  vulgar 
or  subtile  temptations.  He  does  not  confound  the  con¬ 
tents  of  his  purse  with  those  of  his  brains  or  his  heart, 
and  it'  is  not  in  figures  that  he  esteems  his  fellow-men. 
His  exceptional  situation,  far  from  lifting  him  up,  humili¬ 
ates  him,  because  he  really  feels  all  that  he  lacks  to  reach 
the  heights  of  his  duty.  He  has  remained  a  man,  and 
that  is  to  say  all.  He  is  approachable,  willing  to  help, 
and,  far  from  raising  with  his  goods  a  barrier  to  separate 
him  from  the  rest  of  men,  he  makes  of  them  a  means  of 
drawing  more  near  to  them.  Although  the  trade  of  being 
rich  has  been  singularly  spoiled  by  so  many  men,  proud 
and  egotistical,  this  one  succeeds  in  making  himself  appre¬ 
ciated  by  whoever  is  not  insensible  to  justice.  Every 
one,  when  approaching  him  and  seeing  his  life,  is  obliged 
to  turn  to  himself  and  ask:  “What  would  have  become 
of  me  under  the  same  circumstances?  Should  I  have  that 
modesty,  that  indifference,  that  probity,  which  causes  one 
to  act  with  his  own  as  if  it  belonged  to  another?”  So 
long  as  there  is  a  world  and  a  human  society  there  will 
be  those  harsh  conflicts  of  interest ;  so  long  as  envy  and 
egotism  exist  on  earth,  nothing  will  be  more  respectable 
than  riches  filled  with  the  spirit  of  simplicity.  It  will  do 
more  than  to  win  pardon;  it  will  win  love. 

•  •••••*••« 

More  malevolent  than  pride  inspired  by  wealth,  is  that 
inspired  by  power,  and  by  power  I  mean  here  all  powers 


300 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


which  one  man  may  have  over  another,  whether  it  is  great 
or  little.  I  see  no  way  of  avoiding  that  there  should  be 
men  in  the  world  unequally  powerful.  All  organization 
supposes  a  hierarchy  of  forces.  We  can  never  go  beyond 
that.  But  I  fear  that  if  the  taste  for  power  is  very  widely 
spread,  the  spirit  of  power  will  be  lost.  By  understand¬ 
ing  it  badly  and  by  misusing  it,  those  who  hold  any  parcel 
of  authority  almost  everywhere  end  by  compromising  it. 

Power  exercises  a  powerful  influence  over  him  who 
holds  it.  It  needs  a  strong  hand  not  to  be  troubled  by  it. 
This  sort  of  dementia,  which  claimed  the  Roman  emperors 
in  the  days  of  their  despotic  power,  is  a  universal  malady, 
whose  symptoms  have  existed  in  all  ages.  A  tyrant  sleeps 
in  every  man,  and  only  waits  a  propitious  occasion  to 
awaken.  Now  this  tyrant  is  the  worst  enemy  of  authority, 
because  he  furnishes  us  an  intolerable  caricature  of  it. 
From  there  come  a  multitude  of  social  complications,  fric¬ 
tions  and  hatreds.  All  men  who  have  said,  “  You  will  do 
this  because  it  is  my  will,”  or,  better,  “  because  it  is  my 
good  pleasure,”  do  evil  work.  There  is  something  in  each 
of  us  which  invites  us  to  resist  personal  power,  and  this 
something  is  very  respectable.  For  at  bottom  we  are 
equal,  and  there  is  no  person  who  has  the  right  to  exact 
obedience  of  me  because  he  is  he,  and  I  am  I.  In  this 
case,  his  command  abases  me,  and  it  is  not  permitted  to 
let  one’s  self  be  abased. 

One  must  have  lived  in  schools,  studios,  in  the  adminis¬ 
tration  of  public  offices,  to  have  followed  closely  the  rela¬ 
tions  between  men  and  servants ;  to  have  stopped  a  little 
everywhere  where  the  supremacy  of  man  is  exercised  over 
man,  to  have  an  idea  of  what  those  do  who  practice  their 
power  with  arrogance.  Of  every  free  soul  they  make  a 
soul  enslaved,  that  is  to  say,  a  soul  in  revolt.  And  it 
seems  that  this  terrible  anti-social  effect  is  more  surely 
produced  when  he  who  commands  is  near  the  condition 
of  the  one  who  obeys.  The  most  implacable  tyrant  is  the 
small  tyrant.  A  foreman  in  a  workshop,  or  an  overseer, 
puts  more  ferocity  in  his  proceedings  than  the  director  or 
the  owner.  Such  a  corporal  is  harder  on  his  soldiers  than 
the  colonel.  In  certain  houses,  where  madame  has  not 
much  more  education  than  her  maid,  the  relations  be- 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


301 


tween  them  are  like  those  between  a  galley-slave  and  his 
guard.  Everywhere  woe  to  whoever  falls  into  the  hands 
of  a  subaltern,  drunk  with  his  authority. 

We  forget  too  much  that  the  first  duty  of  whoever  ex¬ 
ercises  power  is  humility.  Grandeur  is  not  the  authority. 
It  is  not  we  who  are  the  law.  The  law  is  above  all  heads. 
We  interpret  it  only;  but  to  make  it  valuable  in  the  eyes 
of  others  we  must  first  be  submissive  to  it  ourselves.  Com¬ 
mandment  and  obedience  in  human  society  are,  after  all, 
but  two  forms  of  the  same  virtue,  voluntary  servitude. 
The  most  of  the  time  we  are  not  obeyed  because  we  have 
not  obeyed  first. 

The  secret  of  moral  ascendency  belongs  to  those  who 
command  with  simplicity.  They  soften  by  the  mind  the 
hardness  of  the  fact.  Their  power  is  not  in  gold  lace,  nor 
in  the  title,  nor  in  disciplinary  measures.  They  do  not 
require  ferule  or  threats,  and  yet  they  obtain  everything. 
Why  ?  Because  each  one  feels  that  is,  himself,  willing  to 
do  anything.  That  which  confers  on  one  man  the  right  to 
ask  a  sacrifice  of  another  man  —  his  time,  his  money,  his 
passions,  and  even  his  life  —  is  that  not  only  is  he  re¬ 
solved  to  make  all  those  sacrifices  himself,  but  he  has  in¬ 
wardly  made  them  in  advance.  In  the  order  which  is 
given  by  a  man  animated  by  this  spirit  there  is,  I  know 
not  what  power,  which  is  communicated  to  him  who  should 
obey,  and  aids  him  to  do  his  duty. 

In  all  the  walks  of  human  activity  there  are  chiefs  who 
inspire,  sustain,  electrify  their  soldiers.  Under  their  direc¬ 
tion  a  troop  does  prodigies.  They  feel  capable  with  them 
of  all  efforts,  ready  to  go  through  fire,  according  to  the 
popular  expression,  and  with  enthusiasm  they  would 
pass  through  it. 

•  ••  ••••• 

But  there  are  not  only  the  prides  of  the  great;  there  are 
also  the  prides  of  the  small  ones,  that  low  morgue  which 
is  the  worthy  pendant  of  the  higher  one.  The  root  of  these 
two  prides  is  identical.  The  man  who  says,  “  The  law  is 
me,”  is  not  only  that  arrogant  and  imperious  being  who 
provokes  insurrection  by  his  attitude  alone;  it  is  still  the 
subaltern,  whose  wooden  head  will  not  admit  that  there  is 
anything  above  him. 


302 


CHARLES  WAGNER 


There  are  positively  a  quantity  of  people  whom  all 
superiority  irritates.  For  them  all  advice  is  an  offence; 
all  criticism  an  imposture ;  all  orders  an  attempt  on  their 
liberty.  They  will  not  accept  any  rules;  to  respect  any¬ 
thing  or  any  one  seems  to  them  like  mental  aberration. 
They  say  in  their  manner,  “  Aside  from  us  there  is  no 
place  for  any  one.” 

Of  this  haughty  family  are  also  those  who  are  intracta¬ 
ble  and  susceptible  to  excess ;  who,  in  humbler  conditions, 
never  succeed  in  being  contented,  and  who  fulfill  their 
duties  with  the  airs  of  victims.  At  the  bottom  of  these 
grieving  spirits  there  is  a  misplaced  self-love.  They  do 
not  know  how  to  keep  their  post  simply ;  and  they  compli¬ 
cate  their  lives,  and  those  of  others,  by  ridiculous  exac¬ 
tions  and  unjust  after-thoughts. 

When  one  takes  the  pains  to  study  men  at  close  range,  • 
one  is  surprised  to  find  that  pride  has  its  haunts  among 
those  whom  we  call  humble.  Such  is  the  power  of  this 
vice  that  it'  succeeds  in  forming  around  the  lives  of  those 
who  live  in  the  most  modest  conditions  a  thick  wall,  which 
isolates  them  from  their  neighbors.  They  are  there  in¬ 
trenched,  barricaded  in  their  ambitions  and  disdains,  as 
unattainable  as  the  powerful  ones  of  the  earth  behind  their 
aristocratic  prejudices.  Obscure  or  illustrious,  pride 
drapes  itself  in  its  sombre  royalty  of  enmity  to  the  human 
kind.  It  is  the  same  in  its  misery  and  its  grandeur,  pow¬ 
erless  and  solitary,  distrusting  everything  and  compli¬ 
cating  everything.  And  we  can  never  repeat  enough, 
that  if  there  is  so  much  hatred  and  hostility  between  the 
different  classes,  it  is  less  to  the  external  fatalities  than 
to  the  inward  fatality  that  we  owe  them.  The  antago¬ 
nism  of  interests  and  the  contrasts  of  situations  dig  ditches 
between  us  —  no  one  can  deny  it  —  but  pride  transforms 
those  ditches  into  abysses,  and  in  reality  it  is  they  only 
who  cry  from  one  bank  to  the  other,  “  There  is  nothing 
in  common  between  you  and  us<* 

00000*90 

We  have  not  yet  finished  with  pride,  but  it  is  im¬ 
possible  to  picture  it  under  all  of  its  forms.  I  blame  it, 
above  all,  when  it  meddles  with  knowledge  and  sterilizes 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


30.3 


it.  We  owe  knowledge,  like  riches  and  power,  to  our 
fellow-beings.  It  is  a  social  force  which  should  serve  — 
and  it  cannot,  unless  those  who  know  remain  in  heart  near 
those  who  do  not  know.  When  knowledge  transforms  it¬ 
self  into  an  instrument  of  ambition,  it  destroys  itself. — • 
The  Simple  Life. 


AGNER,  Wilhelm  Richard,  a  German 
poet  and  composer ;  born  at  Leipsic,  May 
22,  1813;  died  at  Venice,  Italy,  February 
13,  1883.  He  was  educated  at  the  Dresden  Kreuz- 
schule  and  at  the  Leipsic  University.  He  studied 
music  under  Weinlig;  and  became  chorus-master  at 
the  Wurzburg  Theatre  in  1833,  and  conductor  at  Mag¬ 
deburg  in  1834.  Here  he  produced  his  opera,  Das 
Liehesverhot,  founded  on  Shakespeare’s  Measure  for 
Measure.  In  1836  he  married;  and  two  years  later 
he  became  music-director  at  Riga,  Russia.  He  turned 
his  attention  to  the  composing  of  Rienzi,  an  opera 
in  five  acts,  which,  after  having  been  refused  in  Paris, 
was  brought  out  at  Dresden  in  1842.  From  1842  to 
1849  he  was  Conductor  of  the  Royal  Opera  at  Dres¬ 
den.  In  1843  Der  Fliegende  Hollander  was  composed 
and  performed ;  and  two  years  afterward  he  produced 
Tannhduser  at  Dresden.  These  works  constitute  Wag¬ 
ner’s  early  operas ;  and,  being  based  upon  the  ac¬ 
cepted  forms  are  held  by  many  to  be  his  best  efforts. 
A  taste  for  politics  now  brought  him  into  disgrace, 
and  he  was  exiled  for  complicity  in  the  Dresden  revo¬ 
lutionary  movements.  He  fled  to  Zurich,  where  he 
produced  Lohengrin  in  1850.  From  1855  to  1863  he 
conducted  performances  in  Germany  and  Russia,  and 


304 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


a  series  of  concerts  in  London.  In  1864  he  won  the 
ear  of  his  famous  patron,  Ludwig  II.  of  Bavaria,  and 
thereafter  he  wanted  nothing  that  the  extravagant 
wealth  of  the  royal  amateur  could  command.  He 
now  began  Der  Ring  des  Nibelungen  ;  and  the  first  two 
parts,  Das  Rhein  gold  and  Die  Walkiire ,  were  given 
at  Munich  in  1869  and  1870,  respectively.  This  instal¬ 
ment  of  the  great  tetralogy,  or  opera  in  series,  com¬ 
pleted  by  the  production  of  the  third  and  fourth  parts, 
Siegfried  and  the  G  otter dammerung,  at  Bayreuth  in 
1876,  was  the  fulfilment  of  much  of  what  Lohengrin 
had  only  been  the  herald.  Two  other  equally  ad¬ 
vanced  works,  Tristan  tend  Isolde  (1865)  and  Die 
Meister singer  (1868),  had  already,  however,  em¬ 
bodied  the  Wagnerian  theory  of  the  importance  of 
dramatic  truth  as  well  as  of  musical  beauty.  Parsifal, 
his  last  great  work,  was  produced  in  1882.  In  1870 
Wagner  married  again,  this  time  Coshna  von  Billow, 
nee  Liszt,  with  whom  he  settled  in  1872  at  Bayreuth. 
Here  he  built  the  large  opera-house  in  which,  in 
1876,  in  the  presentation  of  the  complete  Ring  des 
Nibelungen,  his  musical  theories  first  found  full  ex¬ 
pression.  In  1876  he  visited  London  to  conduct  a 
Wagner  festival,  and  in  1883  he  paid  a  visit  to  Italy, 
where  he  breathed  his  last.  The  list  of  his  operas 
includes,  besides  the  works  already  mentioned,  Die 
Hochzeit  (1833),  an  unpublished  fragment,  and  Die 
Feen  (1833).  He  also  published  numerous  songs, 
and  wrote  many  articles,  libretti  and  the  like,  not 
contained  in  his  collected  writings,  or  cancelled.  It  is 
by  no  means  only  as  a  musician  that  Wagner  will 
be  remembered.  His  many  prose  writings,  which 
have  been  collected  in  ten  volumes,  show  that  he  would 
have  made  his  mark  as  a  philosophical  and  polemical 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


305 


essayist,  had  not  music  itself  supervened.  He  was 
always  his  own  librettist,  and  the  text  of  his  musical 
works  has  a  very  considerable  poetic  value. 

Der  Fliegende  Hollander  is  the  second  of  Wagner’s 
accepted  operas ;  and  marks  the  commencement  of  the 
second  period  of  his  work.  It  is  the  first  work  in 
which  he  permits  his  own  personality  to  dominate  sub¬ 
ject  and  treatment,  and  in  which  he  is  enabled  to 
carry  out  his  theory  of  the  necessity  of  joining  dra¬ 
matic  action  with  poetry  and  music.  In  it  he  has  fre¬ 
quent  opportunity  for  the  display  of  the  highest  poetic 
powers ;  and,  as  a  recent  critic  has  said,  “  combining 
grand  and  powerful  descriptiveness  with  lyrical  ten¬ 
derness  and  grace,  this  opera  wields  a  charm  few  care 
to  resist.  Its  interest,  as  illustrative  of  Wagner’s 
genius,  belongs  to  the  past,  but  as  a  work  of  art  its 
value  is  abiding  and  may  increae  as  the  necessity  for 
asserting  the  true  principle  upon  which  dramatic 
poetry  and  music  are  associated  becomes  more  press¬ 
ing.”  “  With  The  Flying  Dutchman,”  says  Wagner, 
“  I  entered  upon  a  new  course  by  becoming  the  ar¬ 
tistic  interpreter  of  a  subject  which  was  given  to  me 
only  in  the  simple,  crude  form  of  a  popular  tale. 
From  this  time  I  became,  with  regard  to  all  my  dra¬ 
matic  works,  first  of  all  a  poet;  and  only  in  the  ulti¬ 
mate  completion  of  the  poem  my  faculty  as  a  musician 
was  restored.” 

It  was  during  a  fearful  storm,  while  on  a  voyage  to 
London,  that  young  Wagner,  being  driven  toward  the 
Norwegian  coast,  had  caught  the  legend  of  the  “  Fly¬ 
ing  Dutchman.”  “  Here,”  he  says,  “  amid  the  raging- 
storms  and  conflicting  waves,  the  gray  Northern  rocks 
and  the  curious  life  on  board  a  ship,  the  ancient 
legendary  figure  of  the  Dutchman  gained  physiognomy 
Vol.  XXIII.— 20 


306  WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 

and  color.”  Except  the  idea,  taken  from  Heine,  of 
giving  salvation  to  the  Dutchman  bv  means  of  a 
woman,  Wagner’s  Fliegende  Hollander  tells  the  old 
story  of  the  captain  who,  for  his  profanity,  was 
doomed  to  beat  against  head-winds  forever. 

OVERTURE  TO  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN. 

The  Phantom  Ship  of  the  Flying  Dutchman  is  driven 
on  by  the  fury  of  the  gale.  It  approaches  the  shore, 
and  anchor  is  cast  near  the  land,  where  the  vessel’s 
master  hopes  to  find  the  promised  release  from  the  bur¬ 
den  of  his  curse.  We  hear  in  the  orchestra  the  com¬ 
passionate  and  sorrowful  strains  of  the  saving  promise, 
which  interpret  the  idea  of  the  promised  deliverance, 
and  fill  the  heart  as  with  the  pathos  of  prayer  and  lam¬ 
entation.  Gloomily,  despairingly,  the  accursed  Van  der 
Decken  listens  to  these  strains.  Weary  of  life,  yearn¬ 
ing  for  death,  he  paces  the  strand,  while  his  exhausted 
crew  silently  furl  the  sails,  and  make  the  ship  secure  for 
its  brief  stay. 

How  often  has  the  unfortunate  captain  neared  the 
land,  with  his  heart  full  of  this  same  melancholy  long¬ 
ing  !  How  rfiany  times  has  he  directed  the  prow  of  his 
vessel  through  storm  and  wave  toward  the  dwellings  of 
men,  which,  once  in  every  seven  years,  he  is  permitted 
to  visit !  How  often  did  he  imagine  that  the  end  of  his 
woes  had  come ;  but,  alas !  how  often,  cruelly  deceived, 
was  he  again  compelled  to  sail  on  his  endless,  hopeless 
voyage!  To  bring  about  his  own  destruction,  he  in¬ 
vokes  against  himself  the  flood  and  the  storm.  In  vain 
he  steers  his  ship  into  the  yawning  depths :  in  vain  he 
drives  it  on  to  the  breakers  —  the  storm  and  the  rocks 
harm  him  not.  All  the  terrible  dangers  of  the  ocean  at 
which  he  laughed  in  his  earlier  days  of  wild  and  exuberant 
love  of  adventure  and  daring  now  mock  him,  and  he  is 
condemned  to  sail  to  all  eternity  on  the  ocean  desert, 
searching  for  treasures  which  give  him  no  joy,  never 
finding  that  which  can  release  him  from  his  desolate  ex¬ 
istence. 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


307 


Gayly,  joyously,  a  vessel  passes  by:  he  hears  the  laugh¬ 
ter  and  songs  of  the  crew  as  they  sail  on  toward  their 
home.  He  alone  cannot  share  their  joy.  In  his  furious 
career,  as  he  rushes  along  on  the  wings  of  the  storm, 
he  terrifies  the  sailors,  who  flee  from  him,  awe-stricken 
and  aghast.  From  the  depths  of  his  fearful  misery  he 
cries  out  aloud  for  deliverance.  A  faithful  Woman  alone 
can  free  him  from  his  accursed  thraldom  in  the  terrible 
desert  of  his  gloomy  existence.  Where?  —  in  what  land? 
—  lingers  this  deliverer?  Where  is  the  gentle  heart  that 
shall  be  touched  with  the  vastness  of  his  suffering? 
Where  is  she  who  shall  not  flee  from  him  in  terror  and 
dismay,  like  the  coward  sailors  who  lift  up  the  crucifix  at 
his  approach? 

A  bright  light  breaks  in  upon  his  night;  like  a  light¬ 
ning  flash  it  gleams  upon  his  tormented  soul,  but  again 
it  is  suddenly  extinguished.  Once  more  it  is  revealed, 
and  the  poor  wanderer  keeps  the  guiding  star  in  sight, 
and  steers  bravely  through  waves  and  storms  toward 
it.  That  which  attracts  him  so  powerfully  is  the  com¬ 
passionate  glance  of  a  Woman,  whose  noble  soul  is  filled 
with  pity  and  divine  compassion,  and  who  has  given 
her  heart  to  him  —  a  heart  which  has  opened  its  infinite 
depths  to  the  awful  sorrow  of  the  accursed  one,  and 
will  sacrifice  itself  for  his  sake  —  will  break  in  sorrow, 
and  end,  with  its  own  existence,  his  sufferings.  Before 
this  heavenly  appearance  the  accursed  burden  falls  from 
the  unhappy  man  as  his  ship  goes  to  pieces.  The  abyss 
of  ocean  swallows  the  vessel ;  but,  purified  and  free,  he 
rises  from  the  waves,  led  upward  by  the  hand  of  his 
redemptress,  and  surrounded,  as  with  a  halo,  by  the  dawn¬ 
ing  of  an  imperishable  Love. —  From  Der  Fliegende  Hol¬ 
lander. 

senta’s  song. 

Yohohoe  !  Yohohoe  !  Hohohe  ! 
Saw  ye  the  ship  on  the  raging  deep  — 

Blood-red  the  canvas,  black  the  mast? 

On  board  unceasing  watch  doth  keep 
The  vessel’s  master,  pale  and  ghast ! 

Hui !  How  roars  the  wind !  Yohohoe  ! 


308 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


Hui !  How  bends  the  mast !  Yohohoe ! 

Hui !  Like  an  arrow  she  flies, 

Without  aim,  without  goal,  without  rest ! 

Yet  can  the  weary  man  be  released  from  the  curse  in¬ 
fernal, 

Finds  he  on  earth  a  woman  who’ll  pledge  him  her  love 
eternal. 

Ah,  where  canst  thou,  weary  seaman,  but  find  her? 

Oh,  pray  to  Heaven  that  she, 

Unto  death,  faithful  may  be  ! 

Once  round  the  cape  he  wished  to  sail 
’Gainst  ’trary  winds  and  raging  sea; 

He  swore :  “  Though  hell  itself  prevail, 

I’ll  sail  on  till  eternity  !  ” 

Hui !  This  Satan  heard  !  Yohohoe  ! 

Hui  !  Took  him  at  his  word  !  Yohohoe ! 

Hui !  And  accursed  he  now  sails. 

Through  the  sea  without  aim,  without  rest ! 

But,  that  the  weary  man  be  freed  from  the  curse  infernal, 
Heaven  send  him  an  angel  to  win  him  glory  eternal ! 

Oh,  couldst  thou,  weary  seaman,  but  find  her ! 

Oh,  pray  that  Heaven  may  soon, 

In  pity,  grant  him  this  boon ! 

At  anchor  every  seventh  year, 

A  wife  to  woo,  he  wanders  round; 

Fie  woo’d  each  seventh  year,  but  ne’er 
A  faithful  woman  hath  he  found  ! 

Hui !  The  sails  are  set !  Yohohoe ! 

Hui !  The  anchor’s  weighed  !  Yohohoe  l 
Hui!  False  the  love!  False  the  troth! 

"  Where  lingers  still  the  Angel  of  Love  from  Heaven 
descended ? 

Oh,  where  is  she  who  faithful  will  be  till  his  sad  life  be 
ended ?  ” 

Thou  shalt  be  free ;  yea,  through  my  heart’s  devotion ! 

Oh,  that  God’s  angel  guidance  gave  him ! 

Here  he  shall  find  my  love  to  save  him ! 

—  From  Der  Fliegende  Hollander ;  translation  of 
John  P.  Jackson. 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


309 


HISTORY  OF  “  PARSIFAL.” 

Parsifal ,  called  by  its  composer  a  sacred  music-drama, 
was  the  last  of  the  long  series  of  operatic  works  which 
were  the  fruit  of  one  of  the  great  musical  and  dramatic 
geniuses  of  the  last  century.  It  was  performed  first  in 
the  Festspielhaus  in  Bayreuth  on  July  26,  1882,  forty 
years,  lacking  three  months,  after  the  production  of 
Rienzi  in  Dresden,  forty  years  of  unending  labor  and 
tumultuous  strife,  of  starvation  and  plenty,  of  great  dis¬ 
appointments  and  great  rewards.  It  is  the  work  of  an 
old  man  who'  is  weary,  but  whose  indomitable  courage 
will  not  allow  him  to  give  up. 

The  history  of  Parsifal  is  typical  of  Wagner’s  method 
of  work.  The  germ  of  the  drama  was  in  his  mind  years 
before  he  put  pen  to  paper.  As  far  back  as  1857,  while 
living  in  Zurich,  he  made  a  sketch  of  the  Good  Friday 
music.  His  final  work  was  really  the  outcome  of  two 
other  dramas  he  had  meditated.  In  1848  he  sketched  a 
tragedy  which  was  to-  be  called  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  In 
this  he  made  Jesus  a  very  human  preacher  and  philoso¬ 
pher,  who  is  tempted  by  Mary  of  Magdala.  He  realized, 
however,  that  the  world  was  not  ready  for  the  stage  pre¬ 
sentation  of  the  Saviour  and  he  abandoned  this  work  for 
another,  a  Buddhistic  drama,  which,  planned  eight  years 
later,  was  to  be  called  The  Victors.  In  this  Ananda  and 
Pakriti  were  to  be  the  lovers  who  gained  redemption  by 
renunciation. 

Nothing  came  of  this,  and  the  next  fifteen  years  he 
worked  on  his  Nihelungen  dramas,  his  Tristan  and  Meis- 
tersinger,  and  it  was  not  until  after  the  Ring  was  finished 
and  produced  that  he  started  seriously  on  Parsifal. 

An  omnivorous  reader,  he  had  become  acquainted  with 
the  Parzival  of  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  a  German 
translation  of  Li  Conte  del  Graal  of  Chretien  ae  Troyes, 
the  Der  jungere  Titurel  of  Albert  von  Scharffenburg,  and 
several  other  medieval  poems  of  similar  character.  In 
the  Legend  of  the  Floly  Grail  he  found  a  theme  which 
later  appealed  peculiarly  to  him  in  its  possibilities  as  a 
vehicle  for  music,  for  stagecraft,  and  for  the  philosophic 


3io 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


ideas  which  he  then  entertained.  He  saw  the  opportunity 
to  develop  in  it  the  idea  of  redemption  by  love  and  pity, 
the  motive  of  his  Jesus  of  Nazareth  side  by  side  with  the 
ideas  of  renunciation  and  asceticism  which  were  to  have 
been  in  his  Buddhistic  drama.  In  February  of  1877  he 
had  finished  the  poem,  and  before  the  end  of  the  year 
had  begun  the  music.  At  Christmas,  1878,  the  Meiningen 
Court  Orchestra  played  the  Prelude  at  Wahnfried.  The 
piano  rehearsals  began  in  August,  1881,  and  the  score 
was  finished  the  following  January  in  Palermo.  The 
first  performance  took  place  on  July  26.  Winkelman  was 
Parsifal;  Reichmann,  Amfortas;  Kindermann,  Tituriel; 
Hill,  Klingsor;  Scaria,  Gurnemanz;  and  Materna,  Kundry. 
In  the  following  February,  the  13th,  Wagner  died  in 
Venice. 

The  subject  Wagner  used  for  his  music-drama,  the 
Quest  of  the  Holy  Grail,  was  the  most  popular  of  all  the 
legends  the  middle  ages  have  bequeathed  to  us.  Fie  first 
became  acquainted  with  it  in  his  studies  for  Lohengrin, 
and  when  one  considers  the  nature  of  the  man,  it  seems 
inevitable  that  sooner  or  later  he  must  have  taken  it  for 
a  drama.  Intensely  romantic,  legendary,  full  of  the  rich 
imagination  of  the  fertile  medieval  mind,  it  contained  all 
the  elements  necessary  to  Wagner’s  scheme  of  music- 
drama,  and,  as  noted  above,  could  easily  be  made  to  serve 
as  a  vehicle  for  his  philosophic  ideas. 

The  beginnings  of  the  legend  are  lost  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity.  The  story  in  its  main  features  is  a  develop¬ 
ment  of  the  most  ancient  myths  of  the  Indo-European 
race,  being  one  of  the  beautiful  branches  which  have 
grown  from  the  hoary  tree  of  primitive  religio.us  belief. 
Even  in  its  literary  form  it  is  difficult  to  trace  it  back  of 
the  twelfth  century,  when,  like  an  Athene,  it  sprang  full 
grown  from  the  spirit  of  the  age.  There  is  no  more 
fascinating  subject  than  the  wonderful  burst  of  literary 
work  which  came  almost  simultaneously  to  all  western 
Europe  in  the  last  half  of  the  twelfth  century  and  the 
first  quarter  of  the  thirteenth.  It  was,  as  it  were,  the 
most  gracious  and  beautiful  result  of  the  crusades  which 
had  opened  the  eyes  of  the  rude  westerners  to  the  opu- 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


311 

lence  and  beauty  of  the  Orient,  its  music,  its  poetry,  and 
its  art. 

Our  direct  heritage  from  this  fruitful  period  is  the 
Arthurian  cycle  of  legends,  which  have  exerted  constant¬ 
ly  so  enormous  an  influence  on  our  literature.  In  Eng¬ 
land,  France,  Spain,  Italy,  Germany,  Holland,  Denmark, 
and  even  in  distant  Iceland,  Arthur  and  the  heroes  of 
his  Table-Round  were  sung  by  the  minstrels  and  poets. 
The  older  heroes,  Charlemagne  and  his  peers,  Theodoric, 
Attila,  Siegfried,  Hector,  and  Alexander,  disappeared  be¬ 
fore  the  onrush  of  the  Celtic  Knights.  Arthur,  from 
an  obscure  British  chieftain,  whose  memory  was  pre¬ 
served  by  the  bards  of  Wales,  Cornwall,  and  Brittany, 
became  a  world-hero,  a  type-man,  the  model  of  all  chiv¬ 
alry.  His  knights  grew  correspondingly  in  stature  and 
all  the  myths  of  the  past,  pagan  and  Christian,  were  clus¬ 
tered  about  them,  and  the  poets  strove  their  best  to 
give  them  more  adventures  of  chivalry  and  honor. 

Out  of  this  inchoate  mass  of  literature  there  emerges 
one  great  theme  which  in  both  of  its  developments  must 
be  taken  as  the  true  mirror  of  medieval  life,  customs,  and 
habits  of  thought,  the  Quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.  Beside 
it  all  the  others,  Tristan  and  Iseult,  Lancelot,  Merlin, 
and  the  Arthurian  saga  themselves,  take  a  subordinate 
place.  It  not  only  mirrors  for  us  chivalry  at  its  highest 
development,  but  has  been  made  to  embody  the  loftiest 
religious  ideals  of  the  time. 

Like  several  of  the  other  great  themes,  the  only  forms 
in  which  we  have  if  show  high  development.  With  the 
exception  of  a  late  Welsh  manuscript  which  contains  the 
story  of  “  Peredur  ”  there  is  practically  nothing  to  show 
the  early  growth  of  the  legend.  There  are  authorities 
who  dispute  the  primitiveness  of  Peredur,  although  it  is 
altogether  pagan  in  tone.  As  the  idea  that  the  legend 
was  invented  by  a  single  poet  and  copied  and  enlarged 
by  others  has  long  since  been  abandoned,  it  must  neces¬ 
sarily  be  that  the  legend,  at  least  that  which  has  to 
do  with  the  Quest,  existed  in  some  literary  form,  prob¬ 
ably  short  poems  or  “  lais,”  long  before  the  great  poets 
took  it  up. 

The  legend  in  one  of  its  forms  is  composed  of  two 


312 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


distinct  parts  of  different  origin.  One  has  to  do  with 
the  bringing  of  the  Grail,  or  the  dish  in  which  the  blood 
from  Christ’s  wounds  fell,  from  Jerusalem  to  England 
by  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  The  other  is  the  Quest  proper. 
Moreover,  the  legend  as  we  have  it  has  two  distinct  mo¬ 
tives.  The  first  may  be  called  the  knightly,  or  chivalric 
motive,  the  other,  the  monkish,  or  ascetic  motive.  To 
the  first  belong  the  two  great  poems  of  medieval  litera¬ 
ture,  the  unfinished  Conte  del  Graal  of  Chretien  de  Troyes 
and  the  Parzival  of  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach.  To  the 
other  belong  the  poems  of  Robert  de  Boron,  one  of  the 
earliest  writers,  and  the  bulky  prose  romances  the 
Grand  Saint  Graal  and  the  Queste  del  Saint  Graal,  the 
latter  attributed  to  Walter  Map,  archdeacon  of  Oxford. 
It  should  be  noted  that  only  in  the  second  class  do  we 
find  the  Grail  represented  as  the  holy  dish  brought  from 
Palestine  by  Joseph.  Wagner,  however,  has  incorporated 
into  his  work  this  conception,  while  for  the  rest  he  has 
leaned  chiefly  on  Wolfram. 

The  version  of  the  legend  in  this  second  class  is  that 
found  in  Malory  and  in  Tennyson.  The  Grail  is  the 
dish  in  which  was  preserved  the  blood  of  the  Lord. 
Sometimes  it  is,  as  well,  the  Chalice  from  which  Christ 
drank  at  the  last  supper.  It  has  wonderful  magic  quali¬ 
ties.  It  can  sustain  life  and  give  forth  prophecies.  For 
forty-two  years  it  sustained  Joseph  in  prison.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  brings  it  to  England  and  bequeaths 
it  to  his  descendants.  One  of  them  sins,  and  great  evils 
fall  on  him  and  on  the  country.  The  sole  cure  is  a 
pure  knight  who  shall  come  to  the  magic  castle  and  ask 
the  rich  Fisher  King  (for  such  he  is  called)  about  the 
holy  dish.  Then  shall  end  the  “  enchantments  of  Brit¬ 
ain.”  In  the  earlier  versions  of  this  particular  form  of 
the  legend  the  chosen  hero  is  Perceval,  who  starts  out  on 
the  quest  and  finally  succeeds.  But  later,  when  the 
legend  has  been  the  more  thoroughly  identified  with  Ar¬ 
thur’s  court,  the  chief  hero  is  Galahad,  son  of  Lancelot, 
who  starts  out  as  his  aid.  This  substitution  of  Galahad 
for  Perceval  is  one  of  the  legend’s  most'  interesting  fea¬ 
tures,  and  authorities  are  not  yet  unanimous  as  to  its 
cause.  The  most  plausible  theory  is  that  in  the  earlier 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


3i3 


forms  of  the  legend,  chastity  was  not  a  requirement  in 
the  hero,  and  Perceval,  the  best  of  knights,  none  the 
less  lived  the  life  of  his  time.  Gradually,  as  the  ascetic 
and  monkish  ideals  crept  into  the  story  and  made  wo¬ 
man  the  root  of  all  evil,  it  became  necessary,  if  the 
hero  was  to  be  a  virgin,  that  a  new  one  be  created. 
Lancelot  had  suddenly  come  from  obscurity  to  highest 
popularity,  but  he  was  the  lover  of  Guenivere.  Con¬ 
sequently,  Map,  or  whoever  wrote  the  Queste  del  Saint 
Graal,  gave  him  a  son  and  called  him  Galahad.  To 
him  fell  the  successful  quest  of  the  Grail,  and  he  de¬ 
parted  with  it.  Perceval  was  permitted  to  gaze  on  it, 
and  died  a  holy  hermit. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  Chretien  and  Wolfram,  while 
the  story  in  outline  is  similar,  its  spirit  is  very  different. 
Chretien,  as  far  as  he  goes,  tells  a  story  of  knightly  ad¬ 
venture.  Perceval  has  been  brought  up  in  the  forest  by 
his  mother,  who  fears  lest  he  become  a  knight  and  die  in 
battle,  as  his  father  did.  While  still  a  youth,  he  meets 
a  party  of  knights  whom  he  takes  for  supernatural  be¬ 
ings.  He  follows  them  to  Carlisle,  where  King  Arthur 
has  his  court.  Pie  is  insulted  by  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
fights  him  and  gets  the  armor  he  desires.  An  old  knight, 
Gonemans  de  Gelhert,  instructs  him  in  the  usages  of 
chivalry,  one  of  which  is  to  ask  no  questions.  Then  be¬ 
gins  the  story  of  his  Grail  adventures.  He  comes  to  a 
river  on  which  is  a  skiff  containing  a  fisherman.  Asking 
for  shelter,  he  is  directed  to  a  nearby  castle.  In  the  hall 
is  a  hearth  large  enough  to  contain  four  hundred  men, 
and  before  the  fire  lies  a  feeble  old  man,  who  turns  out 
to  be  the  fisherman  he  had  met  at  the  river.  At  meal 
time  there  enters  a  youth  who  carries  a  bleeding  lance, 
two  more  who  carry  branched  candlesticks  all  aflame, 
then  a  maiden  who  brings  in  a  wonderful  jewelled  dish 
(the  Graal),  from  which  food  is  served  to  all  present. 
The  youth  would  ask  the  meaning  of  all  this,  but  remem¬ 
bering  Gonemans’s  counsel  refrains.  The  next  morning 
the  castle  is  all  silent.  He  leaves  it,  then  tries  to  return ; 
but  the  drawbridge  is  up  and  no  one  answers  his  call. 
He  departs  and  comes  across  a  maiden  weeping  on  the 
headless  body  of  a  man.  She  tells  him  that  he  has  been 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


with  the  fisher  king,  so-called  because  fishing  is  his  sole 
amusement.  He  has  been  wounded  in  battle  and  cannot 
be  healed  until  a  good  knight  asks  about  the  spear,  the 
candlesticks  and  the  graal. 

After  many  adventures  he  returns  to  Arthur’s  court, 
and  while  there  a  Loathly  Damsel,  riding  a  mule,  comes 
to  him  and  reproaches  him  bitterly  for  not  having  tried 
to  find  the  Grail  Castle  and  relieve  the  king  of  his  suf¬ 
ferings.  Stricken  with  remorse,  he  starts  out  on  his 
quest.  For  five  years  he  wanders.  One  Good  Friday  he 
meets  a  hermit,  confesses  his  sins  (including  his  forget¬ 
fulness  of  the  day,  for  a  party  of  knights  and  ladies  had 
reminded  him  of  it),  and  then  he  learns  of  the  death  of 
his  mother  for  sorrow  of  him,  and  is  again  reproached 
for  not  having  found  the  castle  of  the  fisher  king.  He 
learns  of  a  hermit  in  the  castle,  his  uncle  and  the  fisher 
king’s  father,  who  is  supported  by  the  sacred  dish. 
Chastened  in  spirit,  he  starts  out  again  to  find  the  castle. 

Here  Chretien  ends,  so  far  as  Perceval  is  concerned. 
His  various  continuators  finish  the  tale,  and  in  some  of 
them  may  be  found  the  monkish  spirit  of  the  other  group 
of  legends.  But  the  fact  chiefly  to  be  noted  here  is  that 
Chretien  so  far  as  he  went  gave  practically  no  evidence 
of  the  sacred  attributes  of  the  spear  and  the  dish.  They 
were  for  him  merely  magic  talismans. 

Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  is  Germany’s  greatest  medie¬ 
val  poet.  A  knight  as  well  as  a  minstrel,  he  was  born 
not  later  than  1170,  and  wrote  (or  dictated)  his  Parzival, 
a  poem  of  25,000  lines,  about  the  beginning  of  the  next 
century,  or  twenty-five  years  after  Chretien  wrote  his 
Li  Conte  del  Graal.  About  his  debt  to  the  French  poet 
a  long  controversy  has  been  waged.  He  himself  speaks 
only  with  scorn  of  Chretien,  asserting  that  the  French¬ 
man  distorted  the  legend.  He  himself,  he  says,  got  the 
story  from  one  Kiot  of  Provence,  who  in  turn  had  found 
it  in  an  Arabic  black  letter  manuscript  in  Toledo,  and 
had  learned  from  it  that  Flegetanis,  a  heathen  who  was 
born  before  Christ,  had  predicted  the  coming  of  a  Grail 
whose  “  saver  ”  would  be  blest  beyond  all  men.  Kiot 
wrote  for  the  glory  of  the  House  of  Anjou,  but  said  noth- 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


3 15 


ing  of  Parzival,  and  this  Wolfram  undertakes  to  cor¬ 
rect. 

The  poem  is  about  equally  divided  between  the  adven¬ 
tures  of  Parzival  and  Gawain.  Some  of  the  latter’s  ad¬ 
ventures  which  have  no  bearing  on  the  Grail  have  been 
taken  by  Wagner.  Notably  Klingsor’s  magic  castle  with 
its  seductive  women.  In  Wolfram  the  Grail  is  not  even 
the  jeweled  dish  of  Chretien.  It  is  a  jewel  which  was 
struck  from  the  crown  of  Lucifer  by  the  archangel  Mi¬ 
chael.  It  fell  to  earth  and  became  the  Grail,  in  the  keep¬ 
ing  of  a  companionship  of  knights  called  “  Templeisen.” 

Except  at  the  beginning,  Wolfram’s  story  follows  Chre¬ 
tien’s  very  closely.  Perzival  is  the  son  of  Gamuret  and 
Herzeleide.  Plis  father  is  killed  while  serving  in  the 
army  of  the  Caliph  of  Bagdad.  Herzeleide  takes  her  son 
into  the  wilderness  to  bring  him  up  in  ignorance  of  men 
and  arms.  Like  Chretien’s  Perceval,  he  is  attracted  to 
King  Arthur’s  court,  slays  a  knight,  and  receives  instruc¬ 
tion  from  an  old  man,  Gurnemanz  —  Chretien’s  Gone- 
mans.  He  aids  a  besieged  city  and  marries  Konduira- 
mour,  its  beautiful  queen.  Then,  like  Perceval,  he  comes 
to  the  castle  of  the  fisher  king,  here  Anfortas,  and  Wolf¬ 
ram  gives  a  most  vivid  description  of  the  procession  and 
feast  and  of  Repanse  de  Schoie,  who  carries  the  Grail. 
Anfortas,  too,  is  a  sufferer,  and  Parzival  neglects  to'  ask 
the  magic  questions.  Like  Perceval,  he  leaves  a  silent, 
deserted  castle,  and  after  numerous  adventures  returns 
to  the  court  of  Arthur,  whither  comes  Kondrie,  the  sor¬ 
ceress,  the  Loathly  Damsel  of  Chretien,  who  fiercely  re¬ 
proaches  him  for  not  asking  the  questions  at  Monsal- 
vasch,  the  Grail  Castle.  He  vows  never  to  sleep  under 
roof  or  to  return  to  his  wife  until  he  has  performed  the 
quest.  After  many  adventures,  on  a  Good  Friday  he 
finds  a  hermit  who  tells  him  the  story  of  the  Grail  and 
how  Anfortas,  it's  guardian,  yielding  to  lust,  received  in 
combat  the  wound  from  a  poisoned  lance  which  cannot 
heal  until  a  knight  comes  and  of  his  own  accord  asks 
about  the  king’s  sufferings.  Then  will  Anfortas  be  re¬ 
leased.  The  knight  will  reign  in  his  stead  and  his  com¬ 
panions  will  go  to  distant  lands  to  right  wrongs. 

Parzival  departs  again  and  after  many  adventures 


3i6 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


reaches  the  Grail  Castle  and  asks  the  questions  which 
release  Anfortas  from  his  misery.  He  becomes  the  head 
of  the  company,  his  wife  joins  him,  bringing  her  two  sons, 
one  of  whom  is  Lohengrin,  who  shall  rescue  the  inquisi¬ 
tive  Elsa  of  Brabant,  and,  later,  reign  in  Parzival’s 
stead. 

Of  Gawain’s  adventures,  mention  must  be  made  of  his 
rescue  of  the  imprisoned  ladies  from  the  castle  of  the 
magician  Klingsor,  the  Chateau  Merveil,  of  his  adventures 
with  the  Lady  Orgeluse,  for  Wagner  has  made  use  of 
both  of  them. 

This  brings  us  to  consider  briefly  the  sources  of  the 
legend.  Within  recent  years  most  authorities  have  iden¬ 
tified  the  Quest  with  what  is  known  in  Celtic  literature  as 
The  Great  Fool  Tale.  It  is  still  told  in  the  highlands  of 
Scotland,  and  variants  are  found  in  all  branches  of  the 
Aryan  family  of  races.  To  one  general  class  belong  the 
Siegfried  legends  of  Scandinavia  and  Germany,  the  Per¬ 
seus  legends  of  Greece,  the  Romulus  legends  of  Rome, 
the  Cuchullin  legends  of  Ireland,  and  the  Perceval  legends 
of  the  Celts,  or  rather  Kymry.  Von  Halm  has  found 
fourteen  stories  which  he  groups  under  the  general  head 
of  the  Aryan  Expulsion  and  Return  Formula,  and  many 
variants  have  since  been  added.  The  Great  Fool  Tale, 
of  which  the  Quest  is  a  direct  descendant,  is  typical  of 
the  class.  A  simple  youth,  brought  up  by  his  mother  in 
the  wilderness,  starts  out  to  avenge  his  father’s  murder, 
and  regain  his  inheritance,  which  he  ultimately  succeeds 
in  doing  by  means  of  a  magic  caldron.  The  old  poets 
tell  us  that  “  Graal  ”  is  a  derivation  of  “  agreer,”  that 
which  is  pleasing.  Later  it'  was  thought  that  “  san-gral  ” 
was  a  corruption  of  “  sang  real,”  “  blood  royal,”  but  it  is 
generally  connected  now  with  the  Provenqal  word  “  gral,” 
still  used  and  meaning  a  dish.  The  grail  is  undoubtedly 
the  magic  restorative  vessel  found  in  all  folklore.  It  is 
a  companion  to  Almalthea’s  horn  of  plenty,  the  basket  of 
Gwyddno,  and  caldron  of  Diwrnach  in  the  Welsh  Mab- 
inogian  tales,  the  magic  caldron  of  Bran  in  Welsh  tales, 
the  gold  of  the  Nibelungs  in  the  Norse  saga.  It  is  even 
related  to  Aladdin’s  lamp.  As  for  the  bleeding  spear, 
identified  by  some  of  the  old  writers  with  the  spear  of 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


3i  7 


Longinus,  who  pierced  with  it  the  Saviour’s  side,  it 
abounds  in  earliest  Celtic  lore,  and  Celtic  authorities  like 
Alfred  Nutt  assert  it  is  but  a  survival  of  the  Welsh  bardic 
symbol  of  undying  hatred  of  the  Saxons. 

Of  the  early  history  of  the  Grail  there  is  less  certainty. 
Undoubtedly  the  false  Gospel  of  Nicodemus,  which  was 
very  popular  in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries,  had 
a  great  influence.  But  here,  too,  the  Celtic  scholars  are 
claiming  all  for  their  own,  Rhys  asserting  that  the  voyage 
of  Joseph  of  Arimathea  is  nothing  but  a  Christianized 
version  of  the  Voyage  of  Bran,  in  Irish  folklore.  In  a 
similar  way  all  the  symbols  and  most  of  the  incidents 
used  by  Wagner  in  his  drama  are  but  reflections  of  old 
world  beliefs  that  have  come  to  us  in  the  folk  tale. 

However  harshly  Wagner  may  be  criticized  for  the 
dramatic  defects  of  his  Parsifal,  it  still  remains  a  monu¬ 
mental  achievement  worthy  to  stand  beside  his  huge  trage¬ 
dy  of  the  Nibelungs  and  his  beautiful  version  of  Tristan 
and  Iseult.  To  have  taken  these  huge  poems  of  the  mid¬ 
dle  ages,  to  have  reduced  them  to  their  essence,  to  have 
combined  different  parts  of  them,  welding  them  together 
with  inventions  of  his  own,  and  thus  to  have  produced  a 
poem  which  contained  the  real  spirit  of  medievalism  while 
yet  surcharged  with  modern  motives  and  thought,  can 
be  regarded  only  as  a  work  of  a  master  mind.  Failure 
to  agree  with  Wagner’s  philosophy  and  beliefs,  and  in¬ 
clination  to  dwell  on  small  slips  in  construction,  cannot 
diminish  the  glory  of  the  achievement.  It  is  as  true  of 
Parsifal  as  it  is  of  Der  Ring  des  Nibelungen  and  Tristan 
und  Isolde. 

In  his  drama  Wagner  employs  six  personages,  Parsifal, 
Amfortas,  the  king  of  the  Grail  Castle ;  Gurnemanz, 
Klingsor,  the  magician,  and  Kundry.  In  addition  to  these 
are  unnamed  knights,  the  Grail  bearer  and  the  Flower 
maidens.  The  story  is,  in  brief,  as  follows: 

On  a  lofty  mountain  in  the  Pyrenees  of  Spain  is  the 
castle  of  Montsalvat  (Mont  Sauvage),  where,  in  the 
keeping  of  King  Amfortas  and  his  company  of  knights, 
is  the  Holy  Grail,  the  Cup  from  which  the  Saviour  drank 
at  the  Last  Supper,  and  the  spear  with  which  His  side 
was  pierced  by  Longinus.  In  a  near  valley  lies  the  Castle 


3i8 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


of  Klingsor,  the  magician,  who  is  eternally  at  war  with 
the  knights  of  the  Grail.  Once  he  had  tried  to  become 
a  member  of  the  order,  and  failing  he  vowed  its  destruc¬ 
tion  and  the  possession  of  the  sacred  cup.  By  means  of 
seductive  damsels  he  had  from  time  to  time  lured  to  de¬ 
struction  members  of  the  companionship,  and  even  the 
king  himself.  Amfortas  had  fallen  victim  to  the  wales  of 
a  siren,  had  sinned,  and  had  lost  his  sacred  spear.  In 
the  vain  struggle  to  rescue  it  he  had  been  wounded  by  it 
in  the  side  and  could  not  be  cured  except  by  a  “  pure 
fool,”  moved  by  pity  and  made  wise  by  fellow-suffering. 
Each  day  must  he  preside  over  the  ceremony  of  bringing 
out  the  Grail,  for  it  furnished  food  and  drink  to  his  com¬ 
panions  and  kept  life  in  the  body  of  his  ancient  father, 
Titurel.  Yet  the  unceiling  of  the  sacred  vessel  increased 
his  suffering  be}^ond  endurance. 

As  Gurnemanz,  the  old  knight,  and  some  companions, 
are  waiting  one  morning  in  a  glade  of  the  forest  for 
Amfortas  and  his  train  to  go  to  the  lake,  a  wild,  fantastic 
creature,  Kundry,  appears  with  a  balsam  she  has  brought 
for  the  king  from  Arabia.  Then  a  swan  falls  pierced  by 
an  arrow  and  there  appears  an  uncouth  youth  who  an¬ 
swers  Gurnemanz’s  reproach  with  boastful  pride  at  the 
accuracy  of  his  aim.  Questioned  by  Gurnemanz,  he  knows 
not  his  father,  his  mother,  or  his  name,  yet  after  a  little 
confesses  he  remembers  his  mother  and  her  goodness 
and  how  he  was  lured  away  from  her  by  the  sight  of 
knights  in  armor  and  by  the  hope  of  becoming  one  of 
them.  Kundry  tells  him  that  his  mother  is  dead  and  he 
springs  at  her  in  wild  rage.  He  is  restrained  by  Gur¬ 
nemanz,  who,  thinking  he  may  be  the  pure  fool,  takes 
him  to  the  castle  for  the  unveiling  of  the  Grail.  Stupid 
and  dumb,  the  boy  remains  silent  through  the  whole 
ceremony  and  is  finally  turned  away  by  Gurnemanz  with 
the  words, 

“  Leave  all  our  sorrows  for  the  future  alone, 

And  seek  thyself,  gander,  a  goose.” 

The  second  act  discloses  a  tower  in  Klingsor’s  Castle. 
The  magician  is  there  waiting  the  coming  of  Parsifal, 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


319 


whom  he  would  have  seduced.  For  this  purpose  he 
summons  Kundry,  a  woman  who  when  herself  is  a 
worker  for  good,  but  under  his  spell  is  an  irresistible 
enchantress,  his  slave  because  she  is  not  pure,  the  cause 
of  Amfortas’s  downfall  and  the  one  who  will  attempt 
Parsifal’s  seduction.  Parsifal  approaches  the  magician’s 
garden,  overthrows  the  knights  on  guard,  repulses  the 
girls  who  would  woo  him,  and  comes  into  the  presence 
of  Kundry,  now  a  woman  of  supernatural  beauty.  She 
would  woo  him  by  sympathy,  by  the  recital  of  his  moth¬ 
er’s,  Herzeleide’s,  sorrows  brought  on  by  him,  and  of  her 
death.  She  bids  him  learn  what  love  is  and  presses  a 
long  and  passionate  kiss  on  his  lips.  The  kiss  is  his 
awakening.  He  understands  Amfortas’s  temptation  and 
fall.  The  physical  agony  of  the  king  becomes  his  men¬ 
tal  anguish.  He  repulses  Kundry,  who  summons  Kling- 
sor.  The  magician  hurls  the  sacred  spear  at  the  boy, 
but  it  hovers  in  mid-air  over  his  head.  He  seizes  it, 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  the  castle  and  all  its 
inmates  disappear  in  ruins. 

Years,  pass.  Amfortas,  unable  longer  to  endure  the 
agony,  refuses  to  unveil  the  Grail.  The  companions 
wither  and  Titurel  is  dead.  Gurnemanz,  now  old  and 
feeble,  is  a  hermit.  To  him  on  a  Good  Friday  morning 
comes  Kundry,  sad  and  penitent,  asking  only  to  be  a 
servitor.  Later  comes  Parsifal,  clad  in  black  armor, 
carrying  the  sacred  spear.  Pie  is  searching  for  the  Grail 
Castle.  Making  himself  known  to  Gurnemanz,  he  is 
greeted  as  the  saver.  Kundry  bathes  his  feet  and  anoints 
his  head  and  the  three  set  off  for  the  castle  where  the 
obsequies  of  Titurel  are  about  to  be  held.  With  the 
spear-point  he  touches  the  wound  of  Amfortas  and  heals 
it.  He  uncovers  the  Grail,  of  which  he  is  now  king  and 
keeper.  Gurnemanz  and  Amfortas  kneel  before  it  and 
Kundry,  absolved  of  all  her  sins,  sinks,  dying,  to  the 
floor. 

The  bald  synopsis  of  the  drama,  taken  in  connection 
with  the  synopsis  of  Chretien’s  and  Wolfram’s  poems, 
and  the  other  versions  of  the  legend,  is  sufficient  to  show 
how  freely  Wagner  took  from  all  of  them  and  adapted 
incidents  to  his  own  end.  Fully  to  appreciate  this  it 


320 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


will  be  necessary  to  look  at  the  characters  and  incidents 
a  little  more  in  detail.  He  has  changed  Wolfram’s  Par¬ 
zival  to  Parsifal,  because  a  German  scholar  named  Gor- 
res  derived  the  name  from  the  Arabic  “  Fal,”  meaning 
“foolish,”  and  “  parsi,”  meaning  “pure  one.”  Very 
pretty,  but  altogether  unacceptable.  Whether  or  not  he 
knew  it  was  wrong  it  suited  Wagner’s  purpose  and  he 
adopted  it.  His  conception  of  the  character  leans  more 
strongly  toward  the  Boron-Map  romances,  since  he  em¬ 
phasizes  the  importance  of  his  hero’s  chastity.  His  idea 
of  the  Grail  being  the  Chalice  of  the  Last  Supper  comes 
also  from  that  set  of  romances,  and  the  identification  of 
the  spear  with  that  of  Longinus  he  got  from  an  intro¬ 
duction  to  Chretien’s  poem,  written  by  a  later  poet. 
Amfortas  is,  of  course,  the  Anfortas  of  Wolfram,  and 
for  dramatic  purposes  he  has  changed  the  manner  in 
which  the  king  was  wounded.  Titurel  occupies  much  the 
same  position  as  his  namesake  in  Wolfram  and  the  un¬ 
named  old  king  in  Chretien.  Gurnemanz  in  the  first  act 
is  the  Gurnemanz  of  Wolfram,  the  government  of  Chre¬ 
tien,  and  in  the  last  act  is  the  old  hermit  in  Wolfram 
and  Chretien,  who  shrives  the  knight  on  Good  Friday. 
In  Klingsor  Wagner  has  made  many  changes.  In  Wolf¬ 
ram  the  magician  has  nothing  to  do  with  Parzival.  It 
is  Gawain  who  goes  to  his  castle  and  releases  the  im¬ 
prisoned  ladies,  the  Chateau  Merveil  which  Wagner  trans¬ 
formed  into  his  magic  castle.  Likewise  does  he  change 
the  cause  of  the  magician’s  mutilation. 

But  by  far  the  most  interesting  of  all  is  Kundry.  De¬ 
rivatively  she  is  the  Kondrie  of  Wolfram,  who  reproaches 
Parzival  for  his  neglect  to  ask  the  questions,  and  tells 
him  of  his  mother,  and  the  Lady  Orgeluse  who  leads 
Gawain  into  all  kinds  of  adventures.  In  the  drama, 
however,  she  is  a  “  type-woman.”  She  is  Herodias,  and 
because  she  laughed  at  Christ  as  he  staggered  up  Cal¬ 
vary  under  the  burden  of  the  cross,  she  is  doomed  to 
wander  over  the  earth,  condemned  to  endless  laughter. 
She  is  Gundryggia,  a  ruthless  Valkyr  of  the  Edda.  She 
is  Mary  Magdalen  and  Pakriti.  Her  prototypes  are 
found  in  all  folk-lore  under  many  forms,  and  she  is  the 
essence  of  them  all.  Herself,  she  would  work  for  good. 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER  321 

She  scorns  the  earth  to  find  a  balm  for  the  wounded  king. 
Under  Klingsor’s  spell  she  is  the  most  dangerous  and 
most  seductive  of  enchantresses.  She  is  finally  redeemed 
by  the  divine  pity  of  the  hero. 

As  with  the  characters,  so  with  the  incidents.  Wag¬ 
ner  has  taken  them  from  all  sources  and  moulded  them 
to  suit  his  purpose.  In  the  sense  of  modern  revival  of 
an  ancient  legend,  in  the  sense  even  as  a  drama  pure  and 
simple,  the  work  is  an  extraordinary  tour  de  force. 

In  view  of  the  controversy  concerning  the  “  sacred¬ 
ness  ”  of  the  drama,  it  is  worth  while  to  quote  from  the 
Parsifal  and  Wagner’s  Christianity  of  David  Irvine,  the 
extremest  of  Wagner  worshippers.  Says  he:  “Parsifal 
is  not  Christ  and  the  Grail  precincts  are  not  heaven ;  but 
if  the  drama  is  the  portrayal  of  a  community  lapsed  from 
a  blessed  condition  on  account  of  the  sin  of  its  authorita¬ 
tive  source  —  namely,  its  king  —  and  the  temptation  of 
the  chosen  one  who  can  restore  the  needed  purity  to  this 
source  in  his  own  person,  the  music  reveals  a  more  ideal 
standpoint,  and  brings  us  into  closer  communion  with 
the  spiritual  world.”  One  more  quotation,  this  from 
Ernest  Newman’s  Study  of  Wagner:  “  The  work  is  a 
veritable  tour  de  force.  To  take  these  shadowy  charac¬ 
ters  and  give  them  dramatic  life,  to  set  before  us  the 
half-metaphysical  poem  of  sin  and  redemption,  with  its 
current  of  ethical  psychology  so  remote  from  that  many 
of  us,  and  yet  to  hold  us  as  we  are  held  perhaps  no  other 
work  of  Wagner’s,  to  make  us  feel  that  Parsifal  is  in 
many  ways  the  most  wonderful  and  impressive  thing  ever 
done  in  music  —  this  is  surely  genius  of  the  highest  and 
rarest  kind.  .  .  .  Altogether,  just  as  Tristan  and  the 

Ring  are  the  dramatic  embodiments  of  Wagner’s  social 
and  ethical  theories  of  earlier  years,  so  Parsifal  is  the 
dramatic  embodiment  of  his  latest  theories  of  sin  and 
pity  and  redemption,  the  last  fruit  from  an  old  tree.” 

In  this  last  sentence  is  to  be  found  the  key  to  the 
whole  mastery  of  the  drama.  All  of  Wagner’s  works  (it 
is  partly  a  source  of  their  strength)  are  but  reflections 
of  his  convictions,  philosophic,  ethical,  and  social,  at  the 
time  he  wrote  them.  Each  one,  even  Rienzi,  had  its 
purpose.  Parsifal  is  but  the  reflection  of  Wagner  wholly 
Vol.  XXIII.— 21 


322 


WILHELM  RICHARD  WAGNER 


possessed  by  Schopenhauer,  of  Wagner  the  foe  of  vivi¬ 
section,  of  Wagner  the  vegetarian,  of  Wagner  whose 
great  creed  then  was  “  enlightenment  by  pity,  and  re¬ 
demption  through  that  enlightenment.”  It  is  a  vague, 
misty,  impalpable  belief  for  most  of  us,  but  so  filled  with 
it  is  he,  so  forcibly  does  he  impress  on  us  his  convictions, 
that  while  we  are  spectators  of  the  work  he  convinces 
us.  The  drama  is  symbolical  of  the  agonies  wrought 
by  the  conscience  of  a  sinner;  of  his  redemption  by  the 
pity  of  a  pure  one  who  through  temptation  withstood 
understands  such  suffering.  It  is  a  plea  for  mental  and 
physical  chastity,  a  depiction  of  the  beauty  of  the  renun¬ 
ciation  of  sensuality  and  the  worthiness  of  repentance, 
all  these  in  the  medieval,  outworn  monkish  sense,  to  be 
summed  up  in  the  one  word  “  asceticism.”  In  a  sense 
it  is  religious  because  its  teachings  are  moral,  like  those 
of  the  Ring,  whether  one  agrees  with  them  or  not.  In 
another  sense  —  in  the  commonly  accepted  meaning  of 
the  word  —  it  is  not  religious,  for  it  does  not  deal  with 
things  that  are  holy.  It  is  a  wonderful  embodiment  of  a 
beautiful  legend,  as  the  Ring  is,  and  as  Tristan  is,  and 
it  is  nothing  more. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  much  of  the  music  of  Parsifal , 
which  after  all  is  the  most  important  part-  of  the  work. 
No  amount  of  analysis  will  convey  its  meaning  and  beauty 
to  the  reader ;  nor  would  a  column  of  themes  and  mo¬ 
tives  hacked  out  of  the  score.  The  music  represents  the 
highest  point  of  Wagner’s  development  both  in  the  per¬ 
fection  of  his  system,  and  in  the  richness  and  variety 
of  his  harmonic  effects.  Melodically,  it  marks  his  de¬ 
cadence.  It  is  the  work  of  an  old  and  sick  man  whose 
fount  of  inspiration  is  running  dry.  Yet  there  are  pages 
in  the  score  of  wondrous  beauty,  beauty  which  is  now 
uplifting  and  soaring,  now  reeking  with  sensuality.  The 
solemnity  and  dignity  of  the  first  act  changes  in  the  sec¬ 
ond  to  rich,  glowing  strains  that  give  us  the  sensuality 
of  Tristan  and  the  wickedness  of  the  Venusberg.  And 
then  again  in  the  third  act  comes  the  peaceful  joy  of 
Good  Friday,  and  finally  the  exalted  fervor  of  the  closing 
scene. 

One  does  not  find  in  Parsifal  the  melodic  spontaneity 


NANCY  AMELIA  WOODBURY  WAKEFIELD  323 


which  characterizes  the  Ring,  the  wonderful  and  vivid 
appropriateness  of  each  theme  which  when  heard  con¬ 
vinces  one  that  no  other  could  be  used  to  express  the 
same  idea  or  emotion.  Nor  does  one  find  the  liquid 
melody  of  Tristan  and  the  Meistersinger.  Yet  the  spell 
woven  by  the  Parsifal  music  is  of  subtle  and  great  power, 
as  great  in  it's  way  as  those  of  the  earlier  works. 

Books  in  vast  numbers  exist  which  will  guide  one 
through  the  labyrinth  of  motives  and  themes.  Yet  it  is 
to  the  score  one  should  go  for  study,  and  then  at  the 
performance,  with  a  pair  of  attentive  ears,  one  may 
learn  for  himself  its  manifold  and  significant  beauties. 
And  when  it  is  finished,  he  will  be  willing  to  say  of 
Parsifal  what  Newman  says  of  the  man  himself:  “  The 
muse  of  Poetry  seems  to  have  dipped  her  wings  into  the 
lucid  stream  of  music,  disturbing  it  with  suggestions  of  a 
world  it  had  never  reflected  before,  deepening  its  beauty 
by  closer  association  with  the  actual  world  of  men.  This 
was  the  brain  of  Wagner.  There  is  none  like  him,  none; 
it  is  almost  safe  to  say  that  there  will  be  none  like  him 
to  the  end  of  time.” 


AKEFIELD,  Nancy  Amelia  Woodbury 
Priest,  an  American  poet ;  born  at  Royal- 
ton,  Mass.,  in  1836;  died  at  Winchendon, 
Mass.,  in  1870.  Her  maiden  name  was  Priest,  and  in 
1865  she  was  married  to  Lieutenant  Arlington  C. 
Wakefield.  Her  fame  rests  upon  the  popular  poem, 
Over  the  River,  published  in  the  Springfield  Repub¬ 
lican  in  1857.  Her  poems  were  published  in  1871  by 
her  mother,  Mrs.  Francis  D.  Priest,  with  a  Memoir 
by  the  Rev.  Abijah  P.  Marvin. 


324  NANCY  AMELIA  WOODBURY  WAKEFIELD 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me  — 

Lov'd  ones  who’ve  crossed  to  the  further  side; 

The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 

There’s  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven’s  own  blue ; 

He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 

We  saw  not  the  angels  that  met  him  there, 

The  gate  of  the  city  we  could  not  see, 

Over  the  river  —  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 
Carried  another  —  the  household  pet, 

Her  brown  curls  wav’d  in  the  gentle  gale  — 
Darling  Minnie,  I  see  her  yet. 

She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark. 

We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands 

And  all  of  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side 
Where  all  the  ransomed  angels  be ; 

Over  the  river  —  the  mystic  river  — 

My  childhood’s  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores 
Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 

We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail. 

And  lo  !  they  have  pass’d  from  our  yearning  hearts, 
They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye, 

We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day ; 

We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 
May  sail  with  us  o’er  life’s  stormy  sea, 

Tet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore 
They  watch  and  beckon  and  wait  for  me. 


EDWARD  LEWIS  WAKEMAN 


325 


And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset’s  gold 
Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 

I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman’s  oar ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand; 

I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale 
To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit-land; 

I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be 
When  over  the  river  —  the  peaceful  river  — 
The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 


AKEMAN,  Edward  Lewis,  an  American 
traveler  and  poet ;  born  near  Harvard,  Ill., 
August  23,  1848.  In  1879  he  founded  The 
Current  at  Chicago,  Ill.,  and  later  traveled  around  the 
world  writing  letters  for  leading  American  news¬ 
papers.  He  became  widely  known  as  the  successor 
of  Bayard  Taylor.  He  wanders  about  on  foot  and 
alone  and  paints  with  so  true  a  hand  that  to  read 
after  him  is  to  travel  beside  him  and  see  and  feel  the 
splendor  and  sadness  of  old-world  life  in  marvelous 
comprehensiveness.  He  is  the  highest  living  author¬ 
ity  upon  the  gypsies.  His  studies  of  and  companion¬ 
ship  with  the  people  of  this  strange  and  mysterious 
race  actually  cover  a  period  of  over  thirty  years. 

There  are  few  fragmentary  poems  which  equal  his 
Angelas. 


THE  ANGELUS. 


The  purple  curtains  of  the  West 
Have  almost  hid  the  sunset’s  fire, 
Which,  flaming  Venice-ward,  a  crest, 


326 


EDWARD  LEWIS  WAKEMAN 


Lights  softly  dome  and  cross  and  spire. 

Deep  lie  the  shadows  in  lagoons 
Far  as  Chioggia’s  sails  and  reeds; 

The  air  with  landward  perfume  swoons, 

My  oarsman  bows  and  counts  his  beads. 

Our  craft  rides  silent  on  the  stream ; 

And,  floating  thus,  I  idly  dream. 

And  dream?  Ah,  fair  queen  of  the  sea, 

Not  all  thy  witchings  can  enthrall 
And  fold  the  wings  of  memory  ! 

A  thousand  leagues  one  tone  can  call, 

A  thousand  leagues  one  picture  bring 
In  fadeless  form  and  scene  to  me ; 

And  though  thy  Angelus  thrillful  ring 
Out  o’er  the  Adriatic  Sea, 

I  hear  through  all  its  rythmics  rung 
Those  good  old  songs  my  mother  sung ! 

O  Angelus-hour  to  heart  and  soul, 

O  Angelus-hour  of  peace  and  calm, 

When  o’er  the  farm  the  evening  stole, 
Enfolding  all  in  summer  balm  ! 

Without,  the  scents  of  fields  —  the  musk 
Of  hedge,  of  corn,  of  winrowed  hay  — 

The  subtle  attars  of  the  dusk; 

And  glow-worms  like  some  milky  way; 
Within  as  from  an  angel’s  tongue, 

Those  dear  old  songs  my  mother  sung: 

“  From  every  stormy  wind  that  blows;” 

“Softly  now  the  light  of  day;” 

“  Thou  hidden  source  of  calm  repose ;  ” 

“I  love  to  steal  awhile  away;” 

“  My  days  are  gliding  swiftly  by ;  ” 

“  Depths  of  mercy  there  can  be ;  ” 

“  Jesus  look  with  pitying  eye ;  ” 

“  Rock  of  ages  cleft  for  me ;  ” 

“  Savior,  on  me  thy  grace  bestow ;  ” 

“  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow !  ” 


EDWARD  LEWIS  WAKEMAN 


327 


“Angelas  Domini  nuntiavit  Marice!” 

Sweet  were  the  echoes  that  fell  on  my  ear ; 

“Angelas  Domini  nuntiavit  Marice!” 

I  worshiped  betimes  with  my  swarthy  gondolier. 

Three  poems,  Auf  Wiederschen;  Becalmed  and  In 
Port,  written  by  Wakeman  during  a  voyage  to  Cuba; 
the  first,  as  the  shores  of  his  native  land  were  disap¬ 
pearing,  can  never  fade  from  American  literature. 
Here  is 

AUF  WIEDERSEHEN. 

The  sun  sweeps  down  behind  the  hills 
As  if  the  tired  world  scorning; 

Worn  Labor  sighs  and  counts  its  ills 
Increased,  despite  all  hopes  and  wills, 

While  Night’s  dread  pall  enfolds  and  chills; 

But,  ah,  beyond  those  dark’ning  hills 
Remember  it  is  morning. 

The  land  fades  quickly  out  of  sight, 

A  thread  of  purple  graven 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  night, 

And  boundless  waters  in  their  might 
Oppose  and  mock  our  good  ships’  flight; 

But  far,  oh,  far  beyond  our  sight 
There  smiles  a  waiting  heaven. 

O  hearts  hope  on  !  —  the  sun  may  hide, 

Lands  fade ;  but  falter  never. 

The  morning  comes  whate’er  betide ; 

The  haven  waits  though  wild  the  tide; 

Labor  and  Love  at  last  shall  glide 
Safe  to  their  Soul’s-rest,  there  to  bide 
In  sweet-won  peace  forever. 

My  land  is  lost  behind  the  sea  — 

O  aching  heart  and  burning ! 

God  knows  my  soul  was  wrapt  in  thee; 

No  more  wert  thou,  in  all,  to  me, 


328 


LUCY  BETHIA  WALFORD 


Than  I  would  to  thy  future  be, 
And  shall  be  !  —  if  the  mighty  sea 
Give  safe  and  sure  returning. 


[ALFORD,  Lucy  Bethia  Colquhoun,  an 
English  novelist ;  born  at  Portobello,  April 
17,  1845.  *873  her  first  novel,  Mr.  Smith, 

a  Part  of  his  Life,  was  sent  anonymously  to  John 
Blackwood,  who  published  it  immediately,  and  soon 
requested  its  author  to  write  for  Blackwood’s  Maga¬ 
zine.  Her  short  stories,  first  published  in  the  maga¬ 
zine,  were  subsequently  issued  collectively,  under  the 
title  Nan:  a  Summer  Scene.  Most  of  her  novels  have 
first  appeared  serially  in  Blackwood’s ;  Good  Words, 
and  other  periodicals.  Among  them  are  Pauline 
(1877);  Cousins  (1879);  Troublesome  Daughters 
(1880);  Dick  Netherby  (1881);  The  Baby’s  Grand¬ 
mother  (1885);  The  History  of  a  Week  (1885); 
Without  Blemish,  The  Bar-Sinister  and  The  New 
Man  at  Rossmere  (1886)  ;  A  Mere  Child  (1888)  ;  A 
Sage  of  Sixteen  (1889)  ;  A  Garden  Party  (1890); 
The  Mischief  of  Mornica  (1891)  ;  Twelve  English 
Authoresses  (1892);  The  Match-maker  (1894);  The 
Archdeacon  (1899)  :  Sir  Patrick,  the  Puddock  (1900)  : 
and  The  Black  Familiars  (1904). 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

A  short,  stout,  gray  man. 

Mr.  Smith. 

The  butcher  was  disappointed  that  he  wasn’t  a  family. 
All  the  time  that  house  was  building  he  had  made  up  his 


LUCY  BETH1A  W ALFORD 


329 


mind  that  it  was  for  a  family.  There  was  rooms  in  it  as 
ought  to  have  been  family  rooms.  There  was  rooms  as 
meant  roast  beef,  and  there  was  rooms  as  meant  saddles 
of  mutton  and  sweetbreads.  In  his  mind’s  eye  he  had  al¬ 
ready  provided  the  servants’  hall  with  rounds,  both  fresh 
and  salt ;  and  treated  the  housekeeper  to  private  and  con¬ 
fidential  kidneys.  He  had  seen  sick  children  ordered 
tender  knuckles  of  veal,  and  growing  ones  strong  soup. 
He  had  seen  his  own  car  at  the  back  door  every  morning 
of  the  week. 

After  all,  it  was  too  provoking  to  come  down  to  —  Mr. 
Smith. 

The  butcher  set  the  example,  and  the  grocer  and  the 
baker  were  both  ready  enough  to  follow.  They  were  sure 
they  thought  there  was  a  family.  Somebody  had  told 
them  so.  They  couldn’t  rightly  remember  who,  but  they 
were  sure  it  was  somebody.  It  might  have  been  Mr.  Har- 
rop  or  it  might  have  been  Mr.  Jessamy. 

Harrop  was  the  innkeeper,  and,  with  an  innkeeper’s  in¬ 
dependence,  denied  the  imputation  flat.  He  had  never 
said  a  word  of  the  sort.  He  had  never  mentioned  such  a 
thing  as  a  family.  Leastwise,  it  would  be  very  queer  if 
he  had,  seeing  as  how  he  had  never  thought  it.  He  al¬ 
ways  knew  Mr.  Smith  was  Mr.  Smith,  a  single  gentle¬ 
man  with  no  encumbrances ;  but  he  must'  confess  that,  as 
to  the  gentleman  himself,  he  had  been  led  to  expect  that 
he  was  somehow  or  other  different.  Someone  had  told 
him  —  he  couldn’t  rightly  remember  who  at  the  moment 
—  that  he  was  a  young,  dashing  spark,  who  took  a  deal 
of  wine,  and  kept  a  many  horses.  Likewise,  his  in¬ 
formant  had  stated,  he  had  a  valet. 

J.  Jessamy,  hairdresser  and  perfumer,  39  High  Street, 
corroborated  the  last  statement.  He  didn’t  know  about  his 
being  young,  but  he  understood  that  he  had  been  one  as 
cared  about  his  appearance.  At  the  very  first  sight  of 
Mr.  Smith,  with  his  thick  iron-gray  whiskers  and  clean¬ 
shaven  lip,  Jessamy  threw  down  the  box  of  sponges  he 
was  arranging,  and  exclaimed  aloud,  “  A  man  can’t  make 
his  bread  off  whiskers !  ” 

Mrs.  Hunt,  the  doctor’s  wife,  from  her  window  over 
the  way,  saw  the  sponges  fall,  and  caught  sight  of  Mr. 


330 


LUCY  BETHIA  WALFORD 


Smith.  In  her  private  mind  she  was  very  much  of  the 
innkeeper’s  opinion.  The  doctor  might  wish  for  a  family, 
but  her  desires  took  a  different  form.  A  Mr.  Smith  satis¬ 
fied  them  very  well,  but  he  should  have  been  another  sort 
of  Mr.  Smith.  A  Mr.  Smith  of  twenty  or  thirty,  amiable, 
handsome,  unmarried,  was  the  Mr.  Smith  she  had  fondly 
hoped  to  welcome. 

But  this  old  gentleman?  No.  Neither  Maria  nor  Clare 
would  ever  look  at  him,  she  was  sure  of  that;  girls  were 
so  foolish.  Those  silly  Tolletons  would  laugh  at  him,  as 
they  did  at  everybody,  and  Maria  and  Clare  would  join  in 
with  them.  Her  face  grew  gloomy  at  the  prospect,  as  she 
looked  after  Mr.  Smith  walking  down  the  street. 

Many  pairs  of  eyes  followed  Mr.  Smith  walking  down 
the  street  that  day.  He  had  arrived  the  previous  night, 
and  had  not  been  seen  before.  The  disappointment  was 

universal.  This  Smith  was  not  the  man  for  them.  That 

* 

was  the  conclusion  each  one  arrived  at  for  the  present. 
The  future  must  take  care  of  itself. 

The  short,  stout,  gray  man  entered  the  post-office,  and 
inquired  if  there  were  any  letters  for  him. 

“  What  name,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Mr.  Smith.” 

Mr.  Smith  got  his  letters,  and  then  the  postmaster  came 
out  to  a  lady  who  was  sitting  in  her  pony-carriage  at  the 
door. 

“  Beg  pardon  for  keeping  you,  my  lady,  but  had  to  get 
such  a  number  for  Mr.  Smith.” 

“  So  that  is  Mr.  Smith,”  thought  she,  taking  her  letters. 
“  And  very  like  a  Mr.  Smith,  too.” 

It  was  but  a  glance;  but  the  glance  which  enabled  her 
to  ascertain  so  much  caused  her  to  let  slip  a  letter  from 
the  budget,  and  it  fell  on  the  pavement.  Mr.  Smith,  com¬ 
ing  out  at  the  moment,  saw  it  fall.  Slowly  and  somewhat' 
stiffly,  but  still  before  the  nimble  groom  could  anticipate 
him,  he  stooped  and  picked  it  up ;  then  slightly  raising 
his  hat,  presented  it,  seal  uppermost,  to  the  lady  in  the 
carriage. 

Lady  Sauffrenden  felt  a  faint  sensation  of  surprise. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  action,  of  course,  but  there 
was  something  in  the  manner  of  performing  it  which 


LUCY  BETHIA  W ALFORD 


33* 

was  not  that  of  a  vulgar  man;  and  a  vulgar  man  she 
had  predetermined  the  new  proprietor  to  be.  She  had 
to  pass  the  house  on  the  Hill  every  time  she  drove  into 
the  village,  and  when  she  heard  that  it  was  being  built 
by  a  Mr.  Smith,  and  that  Mr.  Smith  himself  was  coming 
to  live  in  it,  she  thought  she  knew  exactly  the  sort  of 
person  he  would  be  —  a  short,  stout,  gray  man,  and  vul¬ 
gar. 

Then  she  saw  him  face  to  face,  and  he  answered  to  the 
the  portrait  precisely,  except  —  no,  not  vulgar,  odd. 

After  the  affair  of  the  letter  she  never  called  him 
vulgar. 

Others  saw  the  incident,  but  it  caused  no  change  in 
their  opinions.  It  by  no  means  altered  Mrs.  Hunt’s,  for 
instance.  Mr.  Smith  looked  none  the  younger  when  he 
stooped  down,  and  his  age  was  her  only  objection  to  him. 
The  butcher  recommenced  his  grumbling.  What  was  a 
Mr.  Smith  to  him?  He  didn’t  want  no  Mr.  Smiths.  Mr. 
Smith,  indeed  !  Why,  the  very  name  Smith  had  a  family 
sound.  A  Mrs.  Smith,  a  young  Smith,  the  Miss  Smiths, 
Bobby  Smith,  Jack  Smith,  Joe  Smith,  the  Smiths’  baby, 
and  the  Smiths’  governess  seemed  to  him  the  only  proper 
Smith  connection. 

Then  the  grocer  and  the  baker  recurred  afresh  to 
their  ideal,  a  Mr.  Smith  of  servants.  Children  they  set 
little  store  by,  except  as  they  gave  rise  to  servants.  Har- 
rop  lamented  anew  the  Mr.  Smith  of  his  imagination  —  a 
mixture  of  the  stable  and  the  cellar;  and  Jessamy  took 
up  his  sponges  with  a  sigh,  and  strove  to  efface  from  his 
memory  the  lost  anticipations  of  waxed  mustachios  and 
scented  pocket-handkerchiefs. 

Dr.  Hunt  met  Mr.  Smith,  and  but  that  his  house  of 
cards  had  long  before  this  tumbled  in  the  dust,  it  would 
have  done  so  on  the  spot.  Here  was  the  man  whom  he 
had  been  looking  to  as  the  embodiment  of  human  ail¬ 
ments  !  The  Mr.  Smith  of  measles,  whooping-cough,  and 
chicken-pox;  winter  sore  throats,  and  summer  chills; 
a  Mr.  Smith  of  accidents,  it  might  be ;  best  of  all,  an  in¬ 
creasing  Mr.  Smith.  The  family  so  ardently  desired  by 
the  villagers  he  would  have  been  proud  to  present  to 
them. 


332 


JAMES  BARR  WALKER 


/  There  was  the  man,  and  where  was  such  a  prospect? 
Tough  as  leather  and  as  unimpressible.  He  would  neither 
prove  a  patient  himself,  nor  take  to  him  one  who  would. 
A  place  like  that,  too !  Why  the  practice  of  that  house 
on  the  Hill  ought  to  have  been  a  cool  hundred  a  year  in 
his  pocket.  Pish !  .  .  . 

One  thing,  however,  told  in  favor  of  the  new-comer. 
He  was  rich.  He  had  not  met  their  expectations  in  any 
other  way,  but  he  had  not  failed  in  this.  He  really  and 
truly  was  rich.  His  fortune  was  there.  It  had  not  melt¬ 
ed,  as  money  usually  does,  when  too  curiously  pried  into. 
The  amount,  indeed,  had  been  difficult  to  settle.  At  first 
it  was  thirty,  but  it  had  passed  through  the  different 
gradations  of  twenty-five,  and  twenty,  to  ten  thousand  a 
year.  His  servants  deposed  to  its  being  ten.  Several  of 
them  had  heard  Mr.  Smith  say  so. 

Upon  investigation,  it  proved  to  have  been,  not  Mr. 
Smith  who  said  so,  but  his  lawyer.  The  lawyer’s  phrase 
was,  “  A  man  like  you  with  ten  thousand  a  year.”  And 
this,  of  course,  as  lawyer’s  evidence,  was  even  more  con¬ 
clusive  than  if  it  had  been  given  by  their  master  him¬ 
self.  The  money  was  therefore  secure,  and  they  must' 
make  what  they  could  out  of  it.  It,  at  least,  had  not 
cheated  them.  They  bowed  low  to  the  fortune.  Al¬ 
though  it  had  been  reported  at  thirty,  it  was  held  to 
have  stood  the  test  well,  when  proved  to  be  ten. —  Mr. 
Smith. 


ALKER,  James  Barr,  an  American  clergy¬ 
man  and  theologian ;  born  at  Philadelphia, 
Pa.,  in  1805  ;  died  at  Wheaton,  Ill.,  March  6, 
1887.  He  was  a  factory-hand,  a  store-boy,  a  printer  in 
Pittsburg,  a  clerk  of  M.  M.  Noah,  a  New  York  editor; 
a  teacher  in  New  Durham,  N.  J. ;  a  law-student  in  Ra¬ 
venna,  O.,  and,  in  1831,  a  graduate  from  Western  Re¬ 
serve  College.  For  a  time  he  edited  journals  at  Hud- 


JAMES  BARR  WALKER 


333 


son  and  Cincinnati,  O.,  and,  in  1841,  became  a  Pres¬ 
byterian  minister.  He  established  an  orphan  asylum 
at  Mansfield,  O.,  acted  as  pastor  at  Sandusky ;  and  was 
lecturer  on  the  relations  of  science  and  religion,  at 
Oberlin  and  the  Chicago  Theological  Seminary. 
About  1843  he  published  The  Philosophy  of  the  Plan 
of  Salvation,  which  has  been  translated  into  five  for¬ 
eign  languages.  His  other  works  are  God  Revealed 
in  Nature  and  Christ  (1855),  opposing  the  develop¬ 
ment  theory  of  that  day;  Philosophy  of  Scepticism  and 
Ultraism  (1857)  ;  Philosophy  of  the  Divine  Operation 
in  the  Redemption  of  Man  (1862)  ;  Poems  (1862)  ; 
Living  Questions  of  the  Age  (1869)  ;  Doctrine  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  (1870). 

CHRISTIAN  FAITH  TEMPERS  IMAGINATION. 

There  are  few  exercises  of  the  mind  fraught  with  so 
much  evil,  and  yet  so  little  guarded,  as  that  of  an  evil 
imagination.  Many  individuals  spend  much  of  their  time 
in  a  labor  of  spirit  which  is  vain  and  useless,  and  often 
very  hurtful  to  the  moral  character  of  the  soul.  The 
spirit  is  borne  off  upon  the  wings  of  an  active  imagina¬ 
tion,  and  expatiates  among  ideal  conceptions  that  are 
improbable,  absurd,  and  sinful.  Some  people  spend  about 
as  much  time  in  day-dreams  as  they  do  in  night-dreams. 
Imaginations  of  popularity,  pleasure,  or  wealth  employ 
the  minds  of  worldly  men ;  and  perchance  the  Christian 
dreams  of  wealth,  and  magnificent  plans  of  benevolence, 
or  of  schemes  less  pious  in  their  character.  It  is  diffi¬ 
cult  to  convey  a  distinct  idea  of  the  evil  under  considera¬ 
tion,  without  supposing  a  case  like  the  following: 

One  day,  while  a  young  man  was  employed  silently 
about  his  usual  pursuits,  he  imagined  a  train  of  circum¬ 
stances  by  which  he  supposed  himself  to  be  put  in  pos¬ 
session  of  great  wealth ;  and  then  he  imagined  that  he 
would  be  the  master  of  a  splendid  mansion,  surrounded 
with  grounds  devoted  to  profit  and  amusement  —  he 


334 


JAMES  BARR  WALKER 


would  keep  horses  and  conveyances  that  would  be  per- 
feet  in  all  points,  and  servants  that  would  want  nothing 
in  faithfulness  or  affection;  he  would  be  great  in  the 
eyes  of  men,  and  associate  with  the  great  among  men, 
and  render  himself  admired  or  honored  by  his  genera¬ 
tion.  Thus  his  soul  wandered,  for  hours,  amid  the  ideal 
creations  of  his  own  fancy. 

Now,  much  of  men’s  time,  when  their  attention  might 
be  employed  by  useful  topics  of  thought,  is  thus  spent  in 
building  “  castles  in  the  air.”  Some  extraordinary  cir¬ 
cumstance  is  thought  of  by  which  they  might  be  enriched, 
and  then  hours  are  wasted  in  foolishly  imagining  the 
manner  in  which  they  would  expend  their  imaginary 
funds.  Such  excursions  of  the  fancy  may  be  said  to  be 
comparatively  innocent,  and  they  are  so,  compared  with 
the  more  guilty  exercises  of  a  great  portion  of  mankind. 
The  mind  of  the  politician  and  the  partisan  divine  is 
employed  in  forming  schemes  of  triumph  over  their  op¬ 
ponents.  The  minds  of  the  votaries  of  fashion,  of  both 
sexes,  are  employed  in  imagining  displays  and  triumphs 
at  home  and  abroad,  and  those  of  them  who  are  vicious 
at  heart,  not  having  their  attention  engaged  by  any  use¬ 
ful  occupation,  pollute  their  souls  by  cherishing  imagi¬ 
nary  scenes  of  folly  and  lewdness.  And  not  only  the 
worthless  votaries  of  the  world,  but  likewise  the  fol¬ 
lowers  of  the  holy  Jesus,  are  sometimes  led  captive  by 
an  unsanctified  imagination.  Not  that  they  indulge  in 
the  sinful  reveries  which  characterize  the  unregenerate 
sons  and  daughters  of  time  and  sense ;  but  their  thoughts 
wander  to  unprofitable  topics,  and  wander  at  times  when 
they  should  be  fixed  on  those  truths  which  have  a  sanc¬ 
tifying  efficacy  upon  the  heart.  In  the  solemn  assem¬ 
blies  of  public  worship,  many  of  those  whose  bodies  are 
bowed  and  their  eyes  closed  in  token  of  reverence  for 
God,  are  yet  mocking  their  Maker  by  assuming  the  ex¬ 
ternal  semblance  of  worshippers,  while  their  souls  are 
away  wandering  amid  a  labyrinth  of  irrelevant  and  sin¬ 
ful  thought. 

o 

It  is  not  affirmed  that  the  exercises  of  the  imagination 
are  necessarily  evil.  Imagination  is  one  of  the  noblest 
attributes  of  the  human  spirit ;  and  there  is  something 


JAMES  BARR  WALKER 


335 


in  the  fact  that  the  soul  has  power  to  create,  by  its  own 
combinations,  scenes  of  rare  beauty,  and  of  perfect  hap¬ 
piness,  unsullied  by  the  imperfections  which  pertain  to 
earthly  things,  that  indicates  not  only  its  nobility,  but 
perhaps  its  future  life.  When  the  imagination  is  em¬ 
ployed  in  painting  the  beauties  of  nature ;  or  in  collect¬ 
ing  the  beauties  of  sentiment  and  devotion,  and  in  group¬ 
ing  them  together  by  the  sweet  measures  of  poetry,  its 
exercises  have  a  benign  influence  upon  the  spirit.  It  is 
like  presenting  “  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver  ” 
for  the  survey  of  the  soul.  The  imagination  may  degrade 
and  corrupt,  or  it  may  elevate  and  refine  the  feelings  of 
the  heart.  The  inquiry,  then,  is  important.  How  may 
the  exercises  of  the  imagination  be  controlled  and  di¬ 
rected  so  that  their  influence  upon  the  soul  shall  not  be 
injurious,  but  ennobling  and  purifying?  Would  faith  in 
Christ  turn  away  the  sympathies  of  the  soul  from  those 
gifted  but  guilty  minds, 

“  Whose  poisoned  song 
Would  blend  the  bounds  of  right  and  wrong, 
And  hold,  with  sweet  but  cursed  art, 

Their  incantations  o’er  the  heart, 

Till  every  pulse  of  pure  desire 
Throbs  with  the  glow  of  passion’s  fire, 

And  love,  and  reason’s  mind  control. 

Yield  to  the  simoom  of  the  soul?” 

When  the  conscience  had  become  purified  and  quick¬ 
ened,  it  would  be  a  check  upon  the  erratic  movements 
of  the  imagination;  and  when  the  disposition  was  cor¬ 
rected  it  would  be  disinclined  to  every  unholy  exercise ; 
so  that,  in  the  believer,  the  disinclination  of  the  will  and 
the  disapprobation  of  the  conscience  would  be  powerful 
aids  in  bringing  into  subjection  the  imaginative  faculty. 
But,  more  than  this,  faith  in  Christ  would  have  a  direct 
influence  in  correcting  the  evils  of  the  imagination.  It 
is  a  law  of  mind  that  the  subject  which  interests  an  in¬ 
dividual  most  subordinates  all  other  subjects  to  itself, 
or  removes  them  from,  the  mind  and  assumes  their  place. 
As  in  a  group  of  persons,  who  might  be  socially  convers- 


336 


JAMES  BARR  WALKER 


ing  upon  a  variety  of  topics,  if  some  venerable  individ¬ 
ual  should  enter  and  introduce  an  absorbing  subject  in 
which  all  felt  interested,  minor  topics  would  be  forgot¬ 
ten  in  the  interest  created  by  the  master-subject,  so 
when  “  Christ  crucified  ”  enters  the  presence-chamber  of 
the  believer’s  soul,  the  high  moral  powers  of  the  mind 
bow  around  in  obeisance,  and  every  imagination  folds 
her  starry  wings  around  her  face,  and  bows  before  Im¬ 
manuel.  When  the  cross  of  Christ  becomes  the  cen¬ 
tral  subject  of  the  soul,  it  has  power  to  chasten  the  im¬ 
agination,  and  subdue  its  waywardness  by  the  sublime 
exhibition  of  the  bleeding  mercy  in  the  atonement.  The 
apostle  perceived  the  efficacy  of  the  cross  in  subduing 
vain  reasoning  and  an  evil  imagination,  and  alludes  to 
it  in  language  possessing  both  strength  and  beauty,  as 
“  casting  down  imaginations  and  every  high  thing  that 
exalteth  itself  against  the  knowledge  of  God  and  [mark] 
bringing  into  captivity  every  thought  to  the  obedience 
of  Christ.” 

That  these  views  are  not  idle  speculations,  but  truth¬ 
ful  realities,  is  affirmed  by  the  experience  of  every  Chris¬ 
tian.  When  the  imagination  is  wandering  to  unprofit¬ 
able  or  forbidden  subjects,  all  that  is  necessary  in  order 
to  break  the  chain  of  evil  suggestion,  and  introduce  into 
the  mind  a  profitable  train  of  thought,  is  to  turn  the  eye 
of  the  soul  upon  the  “  Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away 
the  sin  of  the  world.”  By  the  presence  of  this  delight¬ 
ful  and  sacred  idea  every  unworthy  and  hurtful  thought 
will  be  awed  out  of  the  mind.  Thus  does  faith  in  the 
blessed  Jesus  control  and  purify  the  imagination  of  be¬ 
lievers. — Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation,  Enlarged 
Edition. 

NEED  OF  AN  OBJECTIVE  REVELATION. 

Without  aiding  himself  by  written  language,  man  can¬ 
not  ascend  even  to  the  first  stages  of  civilization.  .  .  . 

Man  can  receive  moral  culture  only  by  the  aid  of  signs 
of  moral  truth  embodied  in  written  language.  Man  may 
have  by  nature  an  intuition  of  the  being  of  God,  but  he 
has  no  knowledge  of  the  character  of  God.  .  .  .  Both 

faith  and  conscience  look  to  God  for  authority ;  and 


ALFRED  RUSSEL  WALLACE 


337 


until  faith  sees  God  in  truth,  conscience  will  not  convict 
the  soul  of  disobedience.  Hence,  in  the  moral  culture 
of  the  soul,  everything  depends  on  the  revealment  of 
the  truth.  But  this  truth  must  come  to  the  soul,  not  as 
human  opinion,  or  as  the  utterances  of  philosophy,  but 
as  truth  which  faith  and  conscience  may  recognize  as 
rendered  obligatory  upon  man,  but  by  the  will  and  au¬ 
thority  of  God. — Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation ,  En¬ 
larged  Edition. 


ALLACE,  Alfred  Russel,  an  English  nat¬ 
uralist  and  philosopher ;  born  at  Usk,  Mon¬ 
mouthshire,  January  8,  1822.  After  receiv¬ 
ing  an  education  at  the  grammar  school  of  Hertford, 
he  became  a  land-surveyor  and  architect.  In  1848, 
he  traveled  in  the  valley  of  the  Amazon,  and  from 
1854  to  1862,  in  the  Malay  Islands,  where  he  inde¬ 
pendently  originated  the  theory  of  natural  selection. 
His  paper  On  the  Tendency  of  Varieties  to  Depart  In¬ 
definitely  from  the  Original  Type  was  read  before  the 
Linnsean  Society,  July  1,  1888,  on  which  occasion 
was  read  Darwin’s,  to  the  same  effect.  Dr.  Wal¬ 
lace,  however,  magnanimously  yielded  to  Darwin  the 
privilege  of  a  first  book  on  the  subject.  His  books 
are  Travels  on  the  Amazon  and  Rio  Negro  (1852)  ; 
Palm  Trees  of  the  Amazon,  and  their  Uses ,  and  The 
Malay  Archipelago  (1869)  ;  Contributions  to  the 
Theory  of  Natural  Selection  (1870)  ;  On  Miracles 
and  Modern  Spiritualism  (1875);  The  Geographical 
Distribution  of  Animals  (1876);  Tropical  Nature 
(1878);  Island  Life  (1880);  Land  Nationalization 
(1882)  ;  Forty  Years  of  Registration  Statistics;  Prov¬ 
ing  Vaccination  to  be  Both  Useless  and  Dangerous ; 

Vol.  XXIII.— 22 


ALFRED  RUSSEL  WALLACE 


338 

> 

and  Bad  Times  (1885);  Darwinism  (1889),  a  book 
that  sustains  the  extreme  view  of  natural  selection ; 
Australia  and  Nezv  Zealand  (1893);  The  Wonderful 
Century  (1898)  ;  Studies,  Scientific  and  Social  (1900)  ; 
and  My  Life  (1904). 

TROPICAL  VEGETATION. 

The  primeval  forests  of  the  equatorial  zone  are  grand 
and  overwhelming  by  their  vastness  and  by  the  display 
of  a  force  of  development  and  vigor  of  growth  rarely  or 
never  witnessed  in  temperate  climates.  Among  their 
best  distinguishing  features  are  the  variety  of  forms  and 
species  which  everywhere  meet  and  grow  side  by  side, 
and  the  extent  to  which  parasites,  epiphytes,  and  creepers 
fill  up  every  available  station  with  peculiar  modes  of  life. 
If  the  traveller  notices  a  peculiar  species  and  wishes  to 
find  more  of  It,  he  may  often  turn  his  eyes  in  vain  in 
every  direction.  Trees  of  varied  forms,  dimensions,  and 
colors  are  around  him,  but  he  rarely  sees  any  one  of 
them  repeated.  Time  after  time  he  goes  toward  a  tree 
which  looks  like  the  one  he  seeks,  but  a  closer  examina¬ 
tion  proves  it  to  be  distinct.  He  may  at  length,  perhaps, 
meet  with  a  second  specimen  half  a  mile  off,  or  may  fail 
altogether,  till  on  another  occasion  he  stumbles  on  one  by 
accident. 

The  absence  of  the  gregarious  or  social  habit  so  gen¬ 
eral  in  the  forests  of  extra-tropical  countries  is  probably 
dependent  on  the  extreme  equability  and  permanence  of 
the  climate.  Atmospheric  conditions  are  much  more  im¬ 
portant  to  the  growth  of  plants  than  any  others.  Their 
severest  struggle  for  existence  is  against  climate.  As 
we  approach  toward  regions  of  polar  cold  or  desert 
aridity  the  variety  of  groups  and  species  regularly  di¬ 
minishes;  more  and  more  are  unable  to  sustain  the  ex¬ 
treme  climatal  conditions,  till  at  last  we  find  only  a  few 
specially  organized  forms  which  are  able  to  maintain 
their  existence.  In  the  extreme  north,  pine  or  birch 
trees;  in  the  desert,  a  few  palms  and  prickly  shrubs  or 
aromatic  herbs,  alone  survive.  In  the  equable  equatorial 


ALFRED  RUSSEL  WALLACE 


339 


zone  there  is  no  such  struggle  against  climate.  Every 
form  of  vegetation  has  become  alike  adapted  to  its  genial 
heat  and  ample  moisture,  which  has  probably  changed 
little  even  throughout  geological  periods ;  and  the  never- 
ceasing  struggle  for  existence  between  various  species  in 
the  same  area  has  resulted  in  a  nice  balance  of  organic 
forces,  'which  gives  the  advantage  now  to  one,  now  to 
another,  species,  and  prevents  any  one  type  of  vegetation 
from  monopolizing  territory  to  the  exclusion  of  the  rest. 
The  same  general  causes  have  led  to  the  filling  up  of 
every  place  in  nature  with  some  specially  adapted  form. 
Thus  we  find  a  forest  of  smaller  trees  adapted  to  grow 
in  the  shade  of  greater  trees.  Thus  we  find  every  tree 
supporting  numerous  other  forms  of  vegetation,  and  some 
so  crowded  with  epiphytes  of  various  kinds  that  their 
forks  and  horizontal  branches  are  veritable  gardens. 
Creeping-ferns  and  arums  run  up  the  smoothest  trunks ; 
an  immense  variety  of  climbers  hang  in  tangled  masses 
from  the  branches  and  mount  over  the  highest  tree-tops. 
Orchids,  bromelias,  arums,  and  ferns  grow  from  every 
boss  and  crevice,  and  cover  the  falling  and  decaying 
trunks  with  a  graceful  drapery.  Even  these  parasites  have 
their  own  parasitical  growth,  their  leaves  often  supporting 
an  abundance  of  minute  creeping  mosses  and  hepaticse. 
But  the  uniformity  of  climate  which  has  led  to  this  rich 
luxuriance  and  endless  variety  of  vegetation  is  also  the 
cause  of  a  monotony  that  in  time  becomes  oppressive. — 
Tropical  Nature  and  Other  Essays. 

ORCHIDS. 

These  interesting  plants,  so  well  known  from  the  ardor 
with  which  they  are  cultivated  on  account  of  their  beau¬ 
tiful  and  singular  flowers,  are  pre-eminently  tropical,  and 
are  probably  more  abundant  in  the  mountains  of  the 
equatorial  zone  than  in  any  other  region.  Here  they  are 
almost  omnipresent  in  some  of  their  countless  forms. 
They  grow  on  the  stems,  in  the  forks,  or  on  the  branches 
of  trees ;  they  abound  on  fallen  trunks ;  they  spread  over 
rocks,  or  hang  down  the  face  of  precipices ;  while  some, 
like  our  northern  species,  grow  on  the  ground  among 


340 


HORACE  BINNEY  WALLACE 


grass  and  herbage.  Some  trees  whose  bark  is  especially 
well  adapted  for  their  support  are  crowded  with  them, 
and  these  form  natural  orchid-gardens.  Some  orchids 
are  particularly  fond  of  the  decaying  leaf-stalks  of  palms 
or  of  tree-ferns.  Some  grow  best  over  water,  others 
must  be  elevated  on  lofty  trees  and  well  exposed  to  sun 
and  air.  The  wonderful  variety  in  the  form,  structure, 
and  color  of  the  dowers  of  orchids  is  well  known ;  but 
even  our  finest  collections  give  an  inadequate  idea  of  the 
numbers  of  these  plants  that  exist  in  the  tropics,  because 
a  large  proportion  of  them  have  quite  inconspicuous 
flowers  and  are  not  worth  cultivation.  More  than  thirty 
years  ago  the  number  of  known  orchids  was  estimated 
by  Dr.  Lindley  at  3,000  species,  and  it  is  not  improbable 
that  they  now  be  nearly  double.  But  whatever  may  be 
the  numbers  of  the  collected  and  described  orchids,  those 
that  still  remain  to  be  discovered  must  be  enormous.  Un¬ 
like  ferns,  the  species  have  a  very  limited  range,  and  it 
would  require  the  systematic  work  of  a  good  botanical  col¬ 
lector  during  several  years  to  exhaust  any  productive  dis¬ 
trict —  say  such  an  island  as  Java  —  of  its  orchids.  It  is 
not  therefore  at  all  improbable  that  this  remarkable  group 
may  ultimately  prove  to  be  the  most  numerous  in  species 
of  all  the  families  of  flowering  plants. —  Tropical  Nature 
and  Other  Essays. 


|ALLACE,  Horace  Binney,  an  American 
lawyer  and  essayist ;  born  at  Philadelphia, 
Pa.,  February  26,  1817;  died  at  Paris,  De¬ 
cember  16,  1852.  After  graduation  from  Princeton  in 
1835,  he  studied  medicine,  chemistry,  and  law,  but 
never  adopted  a  profession.  He  spent  his  time  in 
traveling  and  in  study.  Overwork  produced  insanity 
and  he  committed  suicide.  He  edited  several  law¬ 
books,  and  was  the  author  of  Stanley,  or  the  Recollec - 


HORACE  BINNEY  WALLACE 


34i 


tions  of  a  Man  of  the  World  (1838)  ;  Art,  Scenery, 
and  Philosophy  in  Europe,  with  Other  Papers  (1855)  ; 
Literary  Criticism  and  Other  Papers  (1856.  He 
aided  Rufus  W.  Griswold  in  preparing  Napoleon  and 
the  Marshals  of  the  Empire  (2  vols.,  1847). 

August  Comte  said  of  him :  “  In  him  heart,  in¬ 

tellect,  and  character  united  in  so  rare  a  combina¬ 
tion  and  harmony  that,  had  he  lived,  he  would  have 
aided  powerfully  in  advancing  the  difficult  transition 
through  which  the  nineteenth  century  has  to  pass.” 

ASCENT  OF  VESUVIUS. 

There  is  nothing  which  strikes  you  as  different  from 
an  ordinary  mountain,  until  you  are  about  half-way  up, 
when  the  masses  of  lava,  which  lie  about  the  roots  of 
the  volcano,  black  as  death,  come  upon  your  view. 
From  that  point,  the  spectacle  that  expands  below  you 
on  the  other  side,  as  you  look  away  from  the  hill,  is 
one  to  which  all  the  resources  of  the  earth  show  noth¬ 
ing  superior.  I  consider  it  as  one  of  the  great  views 
of  the  world.  Beneath  your  feet  rests  the  arching  Bay 
of  Naples,  defined  by  Misenum  on  the  right  and  Sor¬ 
rento  on  the  left.  From  Resina,  toward  Naples,  and 
on  through  it  to  Posilippo,  the  entire  circuit  of  the 
shore,  which  the  Castel  del’  Novo  divides  beautifully 
into  a  double  scallop  is  one  unbroken,  glittering  range 
of  white  buildings,  presenting  a  grand  and  regular  out¬ 
line.  At  that  extremity  of  the  line  rise  the  pyramidal 
masses  of  Ischia  and  Procida,  and  other  headlands  that 
guard  the  retiring  beauties  of  the  voluptuous  Baise. 
Naples  sparkled  forth  like  a  cluster  of  signet-gems  set 
in  hills,  with  a  range  of  loftier  heights  behind  it.  The 
waters  of  the  bay,  near  the  circling  beach  —  always  blue 
—  looked  more  deeply  so  from  the  elevation  at  which  I 
stood ;  while  on  the  opposite  side,  toward  Sorrento,  the 
sun  —  itself  hidden  from  us  by  clouds  —  streamed  down 
in  blazing  effulgence  upon  the  water,  and  the  isle  of 
Capri  loomed  up  in  the  middle  of  the  gulf,  like  an  irregu- 


342 


HORACE  BINNEY  WALLACE 


lar  mass  of  bronze  rising  out  of  a  sea  of  liquid  gold.  On 
the  right,  behind  Naples  and  Portici,  to  the  line  of  the 
distant  mountains,  extended  a  vast,  hollow  plain,  in  which 
lay  a  dozen  white  and  closely  built  villages,  scattered 
about,  and,  in  the  intermediate  spaces,  single  houses, 
peeping  out  like  stars  on  the  approach  of  evening;  at  the 
first  glancing  look  you  might  see  none,  but  afterward, 
at  every  point  on  which  your  eye  might  rest,  a  villa  would 
seem  to  reveal  itself  to  your  scrutiny.  Beyond  the  hills 
that  etched  a  relieving  background  to  the  plain  spread  the 
dark,  broad  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  in  the  Gulf  of 
Gaeta.  The  air  between  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  the 
sky  above  it  was  one  conflagration  of  azure  light ;  upon 
the  plain,  at  the  side,  lay  a  purple  atmosphere,  deep 
enough  to  color  and  illuminate  the  picture,  not  obscure 
it.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  come  at  last  upon  the  very 
court,  and  home  and  dwelling-place  of  Aurora ;  and  the 
snowy  villages,  which  sparkled  with  brighter  show  amid 
a  spectacle  where  all  was  brilliant,  looked  like  garlands 
of  white  flowers,  which  the  early  hours  had  scattered 
beneath  her  forthgoing  steps,  and  which  still  lay  glitter¬ 
ing  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  treasury  of  the  glories  of 
earth  and  air. 

The  wind  was  blowing  from  us,  and  the  circumstances 
were  favorable  for  viewing  the  cavity.  It  was  filled 
with  a  dense  volume  of  white  gas,  which  was  whirling 
and  rapidly  ascending;  but  the  breeze  occasionally 
drove  it  to  the  opposite  side  and  disclosed  the  depths 
of  the  frightful  chasm.  It  descended  a  prodigious  dis¬ 
tance  in  the  shape  of  an  inverted  truncated  cone,  and 
then  terminated  in  a  circular  opening.  The  mysteries 
of  the  profound  immensity  beyond  no  human  hand 
might  see,  no  human  heart  conceive.  We  hurled  some 
stones  into  the  gulf,  and  listened  till  they  struck  below. 
The  guide  gravely  assured  me  that  ten  minutes  elapsed 
before  the  sound  was  heard;  I  found,  by  the  watch, 
that  the  interval  was,  in  reality,  something  over  three- 
quarters  of  a  minute  —  and  that  seems  almost  incredibly 
long.  When  the  vapor,  at  intervals,  so  far  thinned  away 
that  one  could  see  across,  as  through  a  vista,  the 
opposite  side  of  the  crater,  viewed  athwart  the  mist, 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


343 


seemed  several  miles  distant,  though  in  fact,  but  a  few 
hundred  feet.  The  interior  of  the  shelving  crater  was 
entirely  covered  over  with  a  bed  of  knob-like  blossoms 
of  brilliant  white,  yellow,  green,  red,  brown  —  the  sul¬ 
phurous  flowers  of  Hell.  It  was  like  death  —  which  has 
no  similitudes  in  life.  It'  was  like  a  vision  of  the  second 
death.  As  the  sun  gleamed  at  times  through  the  white 
breath  that  swayed  and  twisted  about  the  maw  of  the 
accursed  monstrosity,  there  seemed  to  be  an  activity  in 
the  vaulted  depth,  but  it  was  the  activity  of  shadows  in 
the  concave  of  nothingness.  It  seemed  the  emblem  of 
destruction,  itself  extinct. — Art  and  Scenery  in  Europe. 


ALLACE,  Lewis  (“Lew  Wallace”),  an 
?  American  soldier  and  novelist ;  born  at 
Brookville,  Ind.,  April  io,  1827;  died  at 
Crawfordsville,  Ind.,  February  15,  1905.  After  re¬ 
ceiving  a  common-school  education,  he  began  the  study 
of  law ;  but  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  Mexican  war 
he  volunteered  in  the  army  as  lieutenant  in  an  Indiana 
company.  I11  1848  he  took  up  the  practice  of  his 
profession  in  his  native  State,  and  was  elected  to  the 
Legislature.  Near  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war  he 
became  colonel  of  a  volunteer  regiment ;  was  made  a 
brigadier-general  of  volunteers  in  September,  1861, 
and  major-general  in  March,  1862.  He  was  mustered 
out  of  service  in  1865  ;  resumed  the  practice  of  law  at 
Crawfordsville,  Ind. ;  was  made  Governor  of  Utah  in 
1878;  Minister  to  Turkey  in  1881;  and  in  1885  re¬ 
sumed  the  practice  of  law  at  Crawfordsville.  The 
works  of  General  Wallace  are  The  Fair  God,  a  story  of 
the  conquest  of  Mexico  (1873)  ;  Ben-Hur,  a  Tale  of  the 
Christ  (1880)  ;  The  Boyhood  of  Christ  (1888)  ;  Life 


344 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


of  General  Benjamin  Harrison  (1888),  and  The  Prince 
of  India  (1893). 

BEHOLD  THE  LAMB  OF  GOD  ! 

“  Let  us  stay  here,”  said  Ben-Huf  to  Balthasar ;  “  the 
Nazarite  may  come  this  way.” 

The  people  were  too  intent  upon  what  they  had  heard, 
and  too  busy  in  discussion  to  notice  the  new-comers. 
When  some  hundreds  had  gone  by,  and  it  seemed  the 
opportunity  to  so  much  as  see  the  Nazarite  was  lost  to 
the  latter,  up  the  river,  and  not  far  away,  they  beheld  a 
person  coming  toward  them  of  such  singular  appearance 
they  forgot  all  else. 

Outwardly  the  man  was  rude  and  uncouth,  even  sav¬ 
age.  Over  a  thin,  gaunt  visage  of  the  hue  of  brown 
parchment,  over  his  shoulders  and  down  his  back  below 
the  middle,  in  witch-like  locks,  fell  a  covering  of  sun- 
scorched  hair.  His  eyes  were  burning  bright.  All  his 
right  side  was  naked,  and  the  color  of  his  face,  and 
quite  as  meagre;  a  shirt  of  the  coarsest  cameks-hair  — 
coarse  as  Bedouin  tent-cloth  —  clothed  the  rest  of  his 
person  to  the  knees,  being  gathered  at  the  waist  by  a 
broad  girdle  of  untanned  leather.  His  feet  v/ere  bare. 
A  scrip,  also  of  untanned  leather,  was  fastened  to  the 
girdle.  He  used  a  knotted  staff  to  help  him  forward. 
His  movement  was  quick,  decided,  and  strangely  watch¬ 
ful.  Every  little  while  he  tossed  the  unruly  hair  from 
his  eyes,  and  peered  around  as  if  searching  for  some¬ 
body. 

The  fair  Egyptian  surveyed  the  son  of  the  desert  with 
surprise,  not  to  say  disgust.  Presently,  raising  the  cur¬ 
tain  of  the  howdah,  he  spoke  to  Ben-Hur,  who  sat  his 
horse  near  by : 

“  Is  that  the  herald  of  thy  King?  ” 

“  It  is  the  Nazarite,”  he  replied,  without  looking  up. 

In  truth,  he  was  himself  more  than  disappointed. 
Despite  his  familiarity  with  the  ascetic  colonists  of  En- 
gedi  —  their  dress,  their  indifference  to  all  worldly  opin¬ 
ion,  their  constancy  to  vows  which  gave  them  over  to 


LE IV IS  WALLACE 


345 


every  imaginable  suffering  of  body,  and  separated  them 
from  others  of  their  kind  as  absolutely  as  if  they  had  not 
been  bora  like  them  —  and  notwithstanding  he  had  been 
notified  oh  the  way  to  look  for  a  Nazarite  whose  simple 
description  of  himself  was  a  Voice  from  the  Wilderness 
—  still  Ben-Hur’s  dream  of  the  King  who  was  to  be  so 
great,  and  do  so  much  had  colored  all  his  thought  of 
him,  so  that  he  never  doubted  to  find  in  the  forerunner 
some  sign  or  token  of  the  Royalty  he  was  announcing. 
Gazing  at  the  savage  figure  before  him,  the  long  train 
of  courtiers  whom  he  had  been  used  to  see  in  the  ther¬ 
mae  and  imperial  corridors  at  Rome  arose  before  him, 
forcing  a  comparison.  Shocked,  alarmed,  he  could  only 
answer : 

“  It  is  the  Nazarite.” 

With  Balthasar  it  was  very  different.  The  ways  of 
God,  he  knew,  were  not  as  men  would  have  them.  He 
had  seen  the  Saviour  a  child  in  the  manger,  and  was 
prepared  by  his  faith  for  the  rude  and  simple  in  connec¬ 
tion  with  the  Divine  reappearance.  He  was  not  expecting 
a  King. 

In  this  time  of  such  interest  to  the  new-comers,  and 
in  which  they  were  so  differently  moved,  another  man 
had  been  sitting  by  himself  on  a  stone  by  the  edge  of 
the  river,  thinking  yet,  probably,  of  the  sermon  he  had 
been  hearing.  Now,  however,  he  arose  and  walked 
slowly  up  from  the  shore,  in  a  course  to  take  him  across 
the  line  the  Nazarite  was  pursuing,  and  bring  him  near 
the  camel. 

And  the  two  —  the  preacher  and  the  stranger  —  kept 
on  till  they  came,  the  former  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
animal,  the  latter  within  ten  feet.  Then  the  preacher 
stopped,  and  flung  the  hair  from  his  eyes,  looked  at  the 
stranger,  threw  his  hands  up  as  a  signal  to  all  the  people 
in  sight;  and  they  also  stopped,  each  in  the  pose  of  a 
listener ;  and  when  the  hush  was  perfect,  slowly  the  staff 
in  the  Nazarite’s  right  hand  came  down,  pointed  at  the 
stranger.  All  those  who  before  were  but  listeners  became 
watchers  also. 

At  the  same  instant,  under  the  same  impulse,  Baltha¬ 
sar  and  Ben-Hur  fixed  their  gaze  upon  the  man  pointed 


34^ 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


out;  and  both  took  the  same  impression,  only  in  a  dif¬ 
ferent  degree.  He  was  moving  slowly  toward  them  in  a 
clear  space  a  little  to  their  front  —  a  form  slightly  above 
the  average  in  stature,  and  slender,  even  delicate.  His 
action  was  calm  and  deliberate,  like  that  habitual  to  men 
much  given  to  serious  thought  upon  grave  subjects;  and 
it  well  became  his  costume,  which  was  an  under-garment 
full-sleeved  and  reaching  to  the  ankles,  and  an  outer 
robe  called  the  talitli ;  on  his  left  arm  he  carried  the 
usual  handkerchief  for  the  head,  the  red  fillet  swinging, 
loose,  down  his  side.  Except  the  fillet  and  a  narrow 
border  of  blue  at  the  lower  edge  of  the  talith,  his  attire 
was  of  linen,  yellowed  with  dust  and  road-stains.  Pos¬ 
sibly  the  exception  should  be  extended  to  the  tassels, 
which  were  blue  and  white,  as  prescribed  by  law  for 
rabbis. 

These  points  of  appearance,  however,  the  three  be¬ 
holders  observed  briefly,  and  rather  as  accessories  to  the 
head  and  face  of  the  man,  which  —  especially  the  latter  — 
were  the  real  source  of  the  spell  they  caught  in  common 
with  all  who  stood  looking  at  him. 

The  head  was  open  to  the  cloudless  light,  except  as 
it  was  draped  with  hair  long  and  slightly  waved,  and 
parted  in  the  middle,  and  auburn  in  tint,  with  a  tendency 
to  reddish  golden  where  most  strongly  touched  by  the 
sun.  Under  a  broad,  low  forehead,  under  black,  well- 
arched  brows,  beamed  eyes  dark-blue  and  large,  and  soft¬ 
ened  to  exceeding  tenderness  by  lashes  of  the  great  length 
sometimes  seen  on  children,  but  seldom  if  ever,  on  men. 
As  to  the  other  features,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
decide  whether  they  were  Greek  or  Jewish.  The  deli¬ 
cacy  of  the  nostrils  and  mouth  was  unusual  to  the  latter 
type ;  and  when  it  was  taken  into  account  with  the  gen¬ 
tleness  of  the  eyes,  the  pallor  of  the  complexion,  the  fine 
texture  of  the  hair,  and  the  softness  of  the  beard,  which 
fell  in  waves  over  his  throat  to  his  breast,  never  a  soldier 
but  would  have  laughed  at  him  in  encounter,  never  a 
woman  who  would  not  have  confided  in  him  at  sight,  never 
a  child  that  would  not,  with  quick  instinct,  have  given 
him  its  hand  and  whole  artless  trust;  nor  might  anyone 
have  said  that  he  was  not  beautiful. 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


347 


The  features,  it  should  further  be  said,  were  ruled  by 
a  certain  expression  which,  as  the  viewer  chose,  might 
with  equal  correctness  have  been  called  the  effect  of 
intelligence,  love,  pity,  or  sorrow ;  though  in  better 
speech,  it  was  a  blending  of  them  all;  a  look  easy  to 
fancy  as  a  mark  of  a  sinless  soul  doomed  to  the  sight 
and  understanding  of  the  utter  sinfulness  of  those  among 
whom  it  was  passing;  yet  withal  no  one  would  have  ob¬ 
served  the  face  with  a  thought  of  weakness  in  the  man ; 
so,  at  least,  would  not  they  who  know  that  the  qualities 
mentioned  —  love,  sorrow,  pity  —  are  the  results  of  con¬ 
sciousness  of  strength  to  bear  suffering  oftener  than 
strength  to  do.  Such  has  been  the  might  of  martyrs  and 
devotees  and  the  myriads  written  down  in  saintly  calen¬ 
dars.  And  such  indeed  was  the  air  of  this  one. 

Slowly  he  drew  near  —  nearer  the  three. 

Now  Ben-Hur,  mounted  and  spear  in  hand,  was  an 
object  to  claim  the  glance  of  a  king;  yet  the  eyes  of  the 
man  approaching  were  all  the  time  raised  above  him,  and 
not  to  the  loveliness  of  Iras,  but  to  Balthasar  —  the  old 
and  unserviceable. 

The  hush  was  profound.  Presently  the  Nazarite,  still 
pointing  with  his  staff,  cried,  in  a  loud  voice : 

“  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God,  which  taketh  away  the  sin 
of  the  world  !  ” 

The  many  standing  still,  arrested  by  the  action  of  the 
speaker,  and  listening  for  what  might  follow,  were  struck 
with  awe  by  words  so  strange  and  past  their  under¬ 
standing.  Upon  Balthasar  they  were  overpowering.  He 
was  there  to  see  once  more  the  Redeemer  of  men.  The 
faith  which  had  brought  him  the  singular  privileges  of 
the  time  long  gone  abode  yet  in  his  heart;  and  if  now  it 
gave  to  him  a  power  of  vision  above  that  of  his  fellows  — 
a  power  to  see  and  to  know  Him  for  whom  he  was  look¬ 
ing —  better  than  calling  the  power  a  miracle,  let  it  be 
thought  of  as  a  faculty  of  a  soul  not  yet  entirely  released 
from  the  divine  relations  to  which  it  had  been  formerly 
admitted,  or  as  the  fitting  reward  of  a  life  in  that  age  so 
without  examples  of  holiness  —  a  life  itself  a  miracle. 
The  ideal  of  his  faith  was  before  him,  perfect  in  face, 
form,  dress,  action,  age;  and  he  was  in  its  view,  and  the 


348  LEWIS  WALLACE 

I  _ 

view  was  recognition.  Ah  !  now  if  something  should  hap¬ 
pen  to  identify  the  stranger  beyond  all  doubt ! 

And  that  was  what  did  happen.  Exactly  at  the  fitting 
moment  —  as  if  to  assure  the  trembling  Egyptian  —  the 
Nazarite  repeated  the  outcry: 

“  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God,  which  taketh  away  the  sins 
of  the  world  !  ” 

Balthasar  fell  upon  his  knees.  For  him  there  was  no 
need  of  explanation;  and  as  if  the  Nazarite  knew  it,  he 
turned  to  those  more  immediately  about  him,  staring  in 
wonder,  and  continued : 

“  This  is  Lie  of  whom  I  said,  After  me  cometh  a  man 
which  is  preferred  before  me ;  for  He  was  before  me. 
And  I  knew  Him  not :  but  that  He  should  be  manifest 
to  Israel,  therefore  am  I  come  baptizing  with  water.  I 
saw  the  spirit  descending  from  heaven  like  a  dove,  and  it 
abode  upon  Him.  And  I  knew  Him  not:  but  He  that 
sent  me  to  baptize  with  water  said  unto  me,  upon  whom 
thou  shalt  see  the  Spirit  descending  and  remaining  upon 
him,  the  same  is  He  that  baptizeth  with  the  Holy  Ghost. 
And  I  saw  and  bare  record,  that  this  — ”  he  paused,  his 
staff  still  pointing  to  the  stranger  in  the  white  garments, 
as  if  to  give  a  more  absolute  certainty  both  to  his  words 
and  to  the  conclusions  intended  — “  I  bare  record  that  this 
is  the  Son  of  God !  ” 

“  It  is  Lie  !  it  is  He  !  ”  Balthasar  cried,  with  upraised 
tearful  eyes.  Next  moment  he  sank  down  insensible. 

In  this  time,  it  should  be  remembered,  Ben-Hur  was 
studying  the  face  of  the  stranger,  though  with  an  in¬ 
terest  entirely  different.  He  was  not'  insensible  to  its 
purity  of  feature,  and  its  thoughtfulness,  tenderness,  hu¬ 
mility,  and  holiness;  but  just  then  there  wras  room  in  his 
mind  for  but  one  thought  —  Who  is  this  man  ?  And 
what?  Messiah  or  King?  Never  was  apparition  more 
unroyal.  Nay,  looking  at  that  calm,  benignant  coun¬ 
tenance,  the  very  idea  of  war  and  conquest  and  lust  of 
dominion  smote  him  like  a  profanation.  He  said,  as  if 
he  were  speaking  to  his  own  heart,  “  This  man  has  not 
come  to  rebuild  the  throne  of  Solomon ;  he  has  neither 
the  nature  nor  the  genius  of  Herod ;  king  he  may  be,  but 
not  of  another  and  greater  than  Rome.” 


LEWIS  WALLACE 


349 


It  should  be  understood  now  that  this  was  not  a  con¬ 
clusion  with  Ben-Hur,  but  an  impression  merely;  and 
while  it  was  forming  —  while  yet  he  gazed  at  the  wonder¬ 
ful  countenance  —  his  memory  began  to  throe  and  strug¬ 
gle  :  “  Surely,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ 1  have  seen  the 
man ;  but  where  and  when  ?  ”  That  the  look,  so  calm 
and  peaceful,  so  loving,  had  somewhere  in  a  past  time 
beamed  upon  him,  as  at  that  moment  it  was  beaming 
upon  Balthasar,  Lecame  an  assurance.  Faintly  at  first 
—  at  last  a  clear  light,  a  burst  of  sunshine  —  the  scene 
by  the  well  of  Nazareth,  what  time  the  Roman  was  drag¬ 
ging  him  to  the  galleys,  returned,  and  all  his  being  was 
thrilled.  Those  hands  had  helped  him  when  he  was 
perishing.  The  face  was  one  of  the  pictures  he  had 
carried  in  his  mind  ever  since.  In  the  effusion  of  feel¬ 
ing  excited,  the  explanation  of  the  preacher  was  lost  by 
him  —  all  but  the  last  words  —  words  so  marvellous  that 
the  world  yet  rings  with  them :  “  This  is  the  Son  of 

God !  ” 

Ben-Hur  leaped  from  his  horse  to  render  homage  to  his 
benefactor ;  but  Iras  cried  to  him,  “  Help,  son  of  Hur ! 
help,  or  my  father  will  die  !  ” 

He  stopped,  looked  back,  then  hurried  to  his  assistance. 
She  gave  him  the  cap ;  and  leaving  the  slave  to  bring  the 
camel  to  its  knees,  he  ran  to  the  river  for  water.  The 
stranger  was  gone  when  he  came  back. 

At  last  Balthasar  was  restored  to  consciousness. 
Stretching  forth  his  hands,  he  asked,  feebly,  “  Where  is 
He?” 

“Who?”  asked  Iras. 

An  intense  interest  shone  upon  the  good  man’s  face,  as 
if  a  last  wish  had  been  gratified,  and  he  answered: 

“  He  —  the  Redeemer  —  the  Son  of  God,  whom  I  have 
seen  again.” 

“  Believest  thou  so?  ”  Iras  asked  in  a  low  voice  of 
Ben-Hur. 

“  The  time  is  full  of  wonders ;  let  us  wait,”  was  all  he 
said.  .  .  . 

And  next  day,  while  the  three  were  listening  to  him,  the 
Nazarite  broke  off  in  mid-speech,  saying  reverently: 

“  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God !  ” 


350 


SUSAN  ARNOLD  ELSTON  WALLACE 


Looking  to  where  he  pointed,  they  beheld  the  stranger 
again.  As  Ben-Hur  surveyed  the  slender  figure,  and  holy, 
beautiful  countenance  compassionate  to  sadness,  a  new 
idea  broke  upon  him : 

“Balthasar  is  right  —  so  is  Simonides.  May  not  the 
Redeemer  be  a  King  also?”  and  he  asked  one  at  his 
side : 

“Who  is  the  man  walking  yonder?” 

The  other  laughed  mockingly,  and  replied :  “  He  is  the 

son  of  a  carpenter  over  in  Nazareth.’’ — Ben-Hur. 


LLACE,  Susan  Arnold  Elston,  an  Amer¬ 
ican  essayist  and  traveler  ;  born  at  Crawfords- 


ville,  Ind.,  in  1830.  She  has  written  largely 
in  periodicals,  and  several  of  her  volumes  are  made  up 
from  materials  which  had  previously  appeared  in  the 
form  of  letters  from  various  countries  in  which  she  has 
sojourned  from  time  to  time.  Her  principal  works 
are:  The  Storied  Sea  (1884);  Ginevra ,  or  the  Old 


Oak  Chest  (1884)  ;  The  Land  of  the  Pueblos  (1888)  ; 
The  Repose  in  Egypt  (1888). 


SHOPPING  IN  DAMASCUS. 


Cairo  has  been  termed  “  the  heart  of  the  Orient  ” ;  but 
since  the  changes  there  by  Ismail  Pacha,  and  the  advent 
of  the  locomotive,  Damascus  is  the  best  place  for  the 
coloring  of  Haroun  Al-Raschid.  The  wealth  of  Damas¬ 
cus  is  immense,  and  there  are  hundreds  of  khans  for 
merchandise,  built  round  a  large  covered  court,  where 
kneeling  and  groaning  camels  deposit  their  loads.  Two 
galleries  run  round  this  space  into  which  open  store-rooms, 
hardly  larger  than  presses.  The  merchants,  who  sit  cross- 
legged  in  front  of  the  meagre  shops,  and  wait  for  cus¬ 
tomers,  are  dignified  and  reserved  as  patriarchs.  One 


SUSAN  ARNOLD  ELSTON  WALLACE 


35i 


might  suppose  in  the  small  stock  of  goods  there  is  hardly 
enough  profit  to  make  both  ends  meet,  even  with  Oriental 
frugality.  Yet  these  silent,  grave  shopmen,  seemingly  so 
poor,  are  worth  their  millions,  and  could  you  visit  them 
you  would  see  palaces  which  make  real  the  visions  of 
Aladdin.  The  houses  of  the  city  are  alike ;  plastered  with 
yellow  stucco,  a  dead  wall  to  the  street,  giving  a  dreary 
and  forbidding  aspect.  Enter  the  carven  doorway  into 
the  court  with  tessellated  pavement  —  a  mosaic  of  bright 
marbles,  where  fountains  laugh  and  sing  to  overhanging 
vines  and  blossoms,  and  the  peculiar  figs  which  made 
the  Roman  epicure  rejoice  that  ever  he  was  born.  One 
such  house  was  built  of  Italian  marbles,  brought'  from 
the  coast  on  mules.  It  had  balconies  despoiled  from 
Saracenic  carvings  of  Egypt,  and  was  hung  with  shawls 
of  Hindustan. 

But  this  does  not  interest  the  stranger  like  the  bazaars 
—  shadowy,  arched,  and  picturesque.  When  you  become 
used  to  dim  lights  and  the  gay  confusion  of  colors,  dis¬ 
cordant  voices  of  men  and  animals,  you  will  be  delighted 
with  them.  Not  in  a  week  or  a  month  can  you  explore 
the  recesses  where  are  gathered  quaint  rarities,  new  and 
old,  exquisitely  finished,  dazzling  the  sight.  Uninviting 
and  evil-smelling  though  they  be,  here  are  heaped  the 
spoils  of  the  East.  Amber  from  the  Baltic  Sea,  coral 
from  the  Caspian,  shell  and  gold  work  from  Cairo,  filigree 
carvings  in  ivory  and  jade  from  China,  coffee-cups  of 
native  work  crusted  with  precious  gems,  chains  and  suits 
of  armor  inlaid  with  jewels.  There  are  spices  from 
Arabia  Felix,  ointments  from  Moab,  and  alabaster  boxes 
from  the  country  of  its  name ;  and  such  amulets  of  opal, 
iridescent  and  glimmering,  talismans  of  moonstone,  and 
turquoises  of  the  mines  of  the  Pharaohs,  warranted  to 
keep  off  the  evil  eye ;  wonderful  caskets  hinting  of  in¬ 
estimable  treasures,  and  ivory  chests,  delicate  as  frost¬ 
work. 

In  the  dark,  crowded  chambers  of  the  Turk  are  rugs 
soft  as  down,  changeable  as  feathers  of  tropic  birds, 
with  tints  toned  completely  as  hues  of  the  rainbow; 
scarfs  stained  with  sea-purple,  barred  and  brocaded  with 
gold;  vari-colored  stuffs  which  always  harmonize.  No 


352 


SUSAN  ARNOLD  ELSTON  WALLACE 


magenta-reds  and  sunflower-yellows  in  the  Damascus  ba¬ 
zaars  ;  they  would  strike  the  eye  as  sharp  discords  pain 
the  ear  attuned  to  music. 

Then  there  is  the  Kaan-stand,  where  only  the  holy 
volume  may  lie  —  the  uncreated,  the  eternal  word,  sub¬ 
sisting  on  the  essence  of  Deity,  and  inscribed  with  a 
pencil  of  light  on  the  table  of  His  everlasting  decrees. 
The  consecrated  stands  are  shaped  like  the  letter  X, 
and  are  made  of  cedar  and  mother-of-pearl.  Hanging 
overhead,  in  dust  and  gloom,  are  ostrich-eggs,  quaintly 
ornamented,  and  ringed  with  hoops  of  gold  and  gems, 
to  be  suspended  in  sacred  places  —  symbols  of  the  resur¬ 
rection.  There  are  the  skins  of  the  spotted  leopard,  of 
the  black-maned  lion  from  the  reedy  coverts  along  the 
banks  of  the  Euphrates,  and  superb  tiger-robes  from  the 
Ganges,  to  be  thrown  on  divans,  or  consecrated  as  prayer- 
carpets.  How  can  I  tell  of  the  Indian-work  of  screens 
and  cabinets;  of  fans,  and  of  ancient  arms,  the  mere 
mention  of  which  stirs  the  ghosts  of  dead  and  gone  Cru¬ 
saders  and  Paladins?  Here  are  wonderful  peacocks,  with 
enamelled  breasts,  and  jewels  for  the  argus-eyes  of  the 
sweeping  tail;  coffee-services  of  brass  and  silver  set  with 
diamonds,  in  trays  arabesque  —  old  Moorish  work ;  nar- 
giles,  with  long  ropes  for  smoking  through  water;  amber¬ 
mouthed  chibouks  —  every  conceivable  shape  of  pipe ; 
meerschaum  and  ambergris,  rose-oil  and  musk ;  shawls, 
silks,  table-covers,  fabrics  of  soft  wool,  furs,  and  leather- 
work  pliant'  as  silk. 

The  experienced  and  enthusiastic  shopper  goes  mad 
with  delight  in  Damascus.  And  after  the  slow  day’s  bar¬ 
gaining  comes  the  pure,  sensuous  enjoyment  of  cooling 
breeze  from  the  snowy  mountain-tops,  the  pomp  of  sun¬ 
sets,  the  glow  of  starry  skies,  and  the  chirp  of  insect-life 
in  restful  unison.  All  is  poetry,  picture :  appeals  to 
memory  and  imagination  such  as  are  never  found  in  the 
raw  newness  of  western  cities  without  a  history. —  The 
Repose  in  Egypt. 


SUSAN  ARNOLD  ELSTON  WALLACE 


353 


THE  PUEBLOS  AND  THEIR  COUNTRY. 

The  least  observant  traveler  through  the  country  of 
the  Pueblos  must  notice  that  it  has  changed  for  the  worse 
since  the  “  Great  Houses  ”  were  built.  They  stand  on 
the  rim  of  the  Colorado  Desert,  and  if  we  accept  the 
theory  of  the  geologists  that  this  is  the  dry  bed  of  an  in¬ 
land  sea,  the  climate  must  once  have  been  very  unlike 
what  it  is  now  —  waterless  ten  months  of  the  year,  and 
at  summer  noon  as  hot  and  as  stifling  as  the  air  of  a 
lime-kiln.  Scientists  unite  in  saying  that  the  rainfall  west 
of  the  Rio  Grande  is  much  less  than  formerly.  The 
present  streams  are  shrunken  threads  of  those  which  once 
flowed  in  their  channels  when  forests  were  more  abundant. 
Northern  Arizona  has  hills  whose  bases  are  covered  with 
dead  cedar-trees,  immense  belts  untouched  by  fire,  proving 
that  the  conditions  friendly  to  the  growth  of  vegetation 
are  restricted  to  narrowing  limits.  Spots  that  have  been 
productive  are  barren ;  springs  gushed  from  the  ground 
which  at  present  is  dry  and  parched ;  and  an  agricultural 
people  has  lived  where  now  no  living  being  could  main¬ 
tain  existence.  Everything  indicates  that  this  region  was 
formerly  better  watered.  Many  rivers  of  years  ago  are 
now  rivers  of  sand ;  and  the  Gila,  at  its  best,  after  gather¬ 
ing  the  confluent  streams,  San  Pedro  and  Salado,  is  not 
so  large  in  volume  as  an  Indiana  creek. 

Ethnologists  try  to  prove  that  the  town-builders  came 
from  the  extreme  north  —  perhaps  even  from  Kam¬ 
chatka  —  and  that  the  adobe  houses  and  Montezuma- 
worship  were  of  indigenous  growth,  founded  by  the  mon¬ 
arch  who  bears  the  proudest  name  in  Indian  history. 
There  are  no  Pueblos  north  of  the  37th  parallel,  and  the 
decline  of  the  race  began  long  before  the  Spanish  inva¬ 
sion.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Casas  Grandes  was 
a  roofless  crumbling  ruin  more  than  three  hundred  years 
ago.  The  Pueblos  must  have  been  a  mightly  nation  in 
the  prime  of  their  strength ;  and  legends  of  their  ancient 
glory,  before  they  passed  under  the  hated  Spanish  yoke, 
are  cherished  among  the  different  tribes.  Reduced  as 
they  were  in  numbers  and  power,  their  battle  was  a  long 
Vol.  XXIII.— 23 


354 


SUSAN  ARNOLD  ELSTON  WALLACE 


and  gallant  struggle.  They  were  finally  brought  into 
subjection  even  to  the  Moquis,  who  lived  perched  in  tiny 
houses  on  scarred,  seamed  cliffs  of  volcanic  rock,  where 
Nature’s  fires  are  burned  out,  in  a  barren  country,  arid 
and  inhospitable,  absolutely  worthless  to  white  men. 

Never  was  life  so  lonely  and  cheerless  as  in  the  deso¬ 
late  hovels  of  the  Moquis.  Their  land  is  not  a  tender 
solitude,  but  a  forbidding  desolation  of  escarped  cliffs, 
overlooking  wastes  of  sand,  where  the  winds  wage  war 
on  the  small  shrubs  and  venturesome  grasses,  leaving 
to  the  drought  such  as  they  cannot  uproot.  A  few 
scrubby  trees,  spotting  the  edge  of  the  plain  as  if  they 
had  looked  across  the  waterless  waste,  and  crouched  in 
fear,  furnish  a  little  brushwood  for  the  fires  of  the  Mo¬ 
quis,  who  are  fighting  out  the  battle  for  existence  that 
is  hardly  worth  the  struggle.  Fixed  habitation  any¬ 
where  implies  some  sort  of  civilization.  The  flinty  hills 
are  terraced,  and  by  careful  irrigation  they  manage  to 
raise  corn  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  The 
seven  villages  within  a  circuit  of  ten  miles  have  been 
isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world  through  centuries, 
yet  they  have  so  little  intercourse  with  each  other  that 
their  tribal  languages,  everywhere  subject  to  swift  muta¬ 
tions,  are  entirely  unlike. 

Diminutive,  low-set  men,  wrapped  in  blankets,  pas¬ 
sively  sitting  on  the  bare,  seared  rocks  in  the  sun,  are  the 
ghastly  proprietors  of  a  reservation  once  the  scene  of 
busy  activities.  They  number  only  1,600  souls  —  shreds 
of  tribes  almost  exhausted,  surrounded  by  dilapidated 
cities  unquestionably  of  great  antiquity.  The  sad  heir¬ 
ship  of  fallen  greatness  is  written  in  the  emptiness  of 
their  barren  estates.  Fragments  of  pottery  are  pro¬ 
fusely  scattered  about;  and  deeply-worn  footpaths  lead¬ 
ing  from  village  to  village,  down  the  river-bank  and 
winding  up  the  plain,  mark  the  ancient  thoroughfares, 
which  are  now  slightly  trodden  or  utterly  deserted. — 
The  Land  of  the  Pueblos. 


WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE 


355 


ALL  ACE,  William  Ross,  an  American  poet; 
born  at  Lexington,  Ky.,  in  1819;  died 
^  at  New  York,  May  5,  1881.  He  was  edu¬ 
cated  at  Bloomington  and  South  Hanover  College, 
Ind.,  studied  law  at  Lexington,  and  in  1841  removed 
to  New  York,  where  he  practiced  his  profession.  He 
engaged  in  literary  work  and  published  a  poem,  Per- 
dita ,  in  the  Union  Magazine ,  which  was  favorably 
criticised.  His  works  are  Alban ,  a  poetical  romance 
(1848),  and  Meditations  in  America  and  Other  Poems 
(1851).  His  most  popular  poems  are  The  Sword  of 
Bunker  Hill ,  a  national  hymn  (1861);  Keep  Step 
with  the  Music  of  the  Union  (1861),  and  The  Liberty 
Bell  (1862). 


THE  LIBERTY  BELL. 

A  sound  like  a  sound  of  thunder  rolled, 

And  the  heart  of  a  nation  stirred  — 

For  the  bell  of  Freedom,  at  midnight  tolled, 
Through  a  mighty  land  was  heard. 

And  the  chime  still  rung 
From  its  iron  tongue 
Steadily  swaying  to  and  fro ; 

And  to  some  it  came 
Like  a  breath  of  flame  — 

And  to  some  a  sound  of  woe. 

Above  the  dark  mountain,  above  the  blue  wave, 

It  was  heard  by  the  fettered  and  heard  by  the  brave  — 
It  was  heard  in  the  cottage  and  heard  in  the  hall  — 
And  its  chime  gave  a  glorious  summons  to  all. 

The  sabre  was  sharpened  —  the  time-rusted  blade 
Of  the  Bond  started  out'  in  the  pioneer’s  glade 
Like  a  herald  of  wrath ;  and  the  host  was  arrayed ! 
Along  the  dark  mountain,  along  the  blue  wave 


356  WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE 

Swept  the  ranks  of  the  Bond  —  swept  the  ranks  of  tlm 
Brave ; 

And  a  shout  as  of  v/aters  went  up  to  the  dome, 

When  a  star-blazing  banner  unfurled, 

Like  the  wing  of  some  Seraph  flashed  out  from  his 
home, 

Uttered  freedom  and  hope  to  the  world. 

O’er  the  hill-top  and  tide  its  magnificent  fold, 

With  a  terrible  glitter  of  azure  and  gold, 

In  the  storm,  in  the  sunshine,  and  darkness  unrolled. 

It  blazed  in  the  valley  —  it  blazed  on  the  mast  — 

It  leaped  with  its  eagle  abroad  on  the  blast ; 

And  the  eyes  of  whole  nations  were  turned  to  its  light ; 

And  the  heart  of  the  multitude  soon 
Was  swayed  by  its  stars,  as  they  shone  through  the  night 
Like  an  ocean  when  swayed  by  the  moon. 

Again  through  the  midnight  that  Bell  thunders  out, 

And  banners  and  torches  are  hurried  about  : 

A  shout  as  of  waters :  a  long-uttered  cry ! 

How  it  leaps,  how  it  leaps  from  the  earth  to  the  sky ! 
From  the  sky  to  the  earth,  from  the  earth  to  the  sea, 
Hear  a  chorus  reechoed,  the  people  are  free  ! 

That  old  Bell  is  still  seen  by  the  Patriot’s  eye, 

And  he  blesses  it  ever  when  journeying  by; 

Long  years  have  passed  o’er  it,  and  yet  every  soul 
Will  thrill  in  the  night  to  its  wonderful  roll  — 

For  it  speaks  in  its  belfry,  when  kissed  by  the  blast, 

Like  a  glory-breathed  tone,  from  the  mystical  Past. 
Long  years  shall  roll  o’er  it,  and  yet  every  chime 
Shall  unceasingly  tell  of  an  era  sublime, 

More  splendid,  more  dear  than  the  rest  of  all  time. 

Oh,  yes  !  if  the  flame  on  our  altars  should  pale 

Let  its  voice  but  be  heard,  and  the  Freeman  shall  start 
To  rekindle  the  fire,  while  he  sees,  on  the  gale, 

All  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes  of  the  Flag  of  his  heart ! 


WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE 


357 


THE  SWORD  OF  BUNKER  HILL. 

He  lay  upon  his  dying  bed, 

His  eyes  were  growing  dim, 

When  with  a  feeble  voice  he  called 
His  weeping  son  to  him. 

“  Weep  not,  my  boy,”  the  veteran  said, 

“  I  bow  to  Heaven’s  high  will, 

But  quickly  from  yon  antlers  bring 
The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill.” 

The  sword  was  brought ;  the  soldier’s  eyes 
Lit  with  a  sudden  flame, 

And  as  he  grasped  the  ancient  blade, 

He  murmured  Warren’s  name. 

Then  said :  “  My  boy,  I  leave  you  gold, 
But  what  is  better  still, 

I  leave  you,  mark  me,  mark  me  now, 

The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

“  ’Twas  on  that  dread,  immortal  day 
We  dared  the  British  band, 

A  captain  raised  this  sword  on  me, 

I  tore  it  from  his  hand. 

And  as  the  awful  battle  raged, 

It  lighted  Freedom’s  will; 

For,  boy,  the  God  of  Freedom  blessed 
The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

“  O  keep  the  sword,  and  should  the  foe 
Again  invade  our  land, 

My  soul  will  shout  from  Heaven  to  see 
It  flame  in  your  right  hand; 

For  ’twill  be  double  sacrilege 
If  where  sunk  tyrant  —  ill 
Power  dare  to  strike  Man’s  rights  won  by 
The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

“  O  keep  the  sword ;  you  know  what’s  in 
The  handle’s  hollow  there : 


358 


EDMUND  WALLER 


It  shrines,  will  always  shrine,  that  lock 
Of  Washington’s  own  hair. 

The  terror  of  oppression’s  here ; 

Despots !  your  own  graves  fill, 

O’er  Vernon’s  gift  God’s  seal  is  on 
The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

“  O  keep  the  sword  ” —  his  accents  broke ; 

A  smile,  and  he  was  dead  — 

But  his  wrinkled  hands  still  grasped  the  blade 
Upon  that  dying  bed. 

The  son  remains,  the  sword  remains, 

Its  glory  growing  still, 

And  fifty  millions  bless  the  sire 
And  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

A  hundred  years  have  smiled  o’er  us 
Since  for  the  priceless  gem 
Of  Might  with  Right  that'  moveless  make 
Our  Nation’s  diadem. 

Putnam,  Starke,  Prescott,  Warren  fought 
So  centuries  might  thrill 
To  see  the  whole  world  made  free  by 
The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 


ALLER,  Edmund,  an  English  poet;  born  at 
Coleshill,  Warwickshire,  March  3,  1605 ; 
died  at  Beaconsfield,  October  21,  1687.  At 
eighteen  years  of  age  he  entered  Parliament.  Promi¬ 
nent  as  a  popular  leader,  he  was  nevertheless  detected 
in  a  Royalist  plot,  imprisoned,  and  heavily  fined.  On 
his  release,  he  lived  in  France,  but  returned  and  was 
reconciled  to  Cromwell,  whom  he  exalted  in  verse, 
and,  after  the  Restoration,  execrated.  At  eighty  years 
of  age  he  was  still  in  Parliament,  under  James  II. 


EDMUND  WALLER 


359 


His  poems,  published  in  1645  and  1690,  are  some  of 
them  sweet  and  simple,  but  are  chiefly  remarkable  for 
their  polish,  and  as  introducing  a  French  style  of 
rhymed  pentameter  couplets  (the  “heroic”),  which 
was  perfected  by  Dryden  and  Pope,  but  became  a  uni¬ 
versal  fashion  of  tedious  see-sawing,  down  to  this 
century.  It  has  been  exquisitely  revived,  however,  in 
some  of  the  poems  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  The 
fourth  selection  is  an  example  of  this  measure,  from 
Waller. 

THE  BUD. 

Lately  on  yonder  swelling  bush, 

Big  with  many  a  coming  rose. 

This  early  bud  began  to  blush, 

And  did  but  half  itself  disclose ; 

I  plucked  it  tnough  no  better  grown, 

And  now  you  see  how  full  ’tis  blown. 

Still,  as  I  did  the  leaves  inspire, 

With  such  a  purple  light  they  shone 
As  if  they  had  been  made  of  fire, 

And  spreading  so  would  flame  anon. 

All  that  was  meant  by  air  or  sun, 

To  the  young  flower  my  breath  has  done. 

If  our  loose  breath  so  much  can  do, 

What  may  the  same  in  forms  of  love, 

Of  purest  love  and  music,  too, 

When  Flavia  it  aspires  to  move? 

When  that  which  lifeless  buds  persuades 
To  wax  more  soft’,  her  youth  invades? 

GO,  LOVELY  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 

Tell  her  that'  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


36  o 


EDMUND  WALLER 


Tell  her  that’s  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That,  liadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee, 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 

OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o’er: 

So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more : 

For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 

The  soul’s  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 

Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time  has  made 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 

As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 

Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

FROM  “  HIS  majesty’s  ESCAPE  AT  ST.  ANDREWS.” 

/ 

While  to  his  harp  divine  Arion  sings 
The  love  and  conquests  of  our  Albion  kings. 

Of  the  fourth  Edward  was  his  noble  song, 

Fierce,  goodly,  valiant,  beautiful,  and  young; 

He  rent  the  crown  from  vanquished  Henry’s  head, 


EDMUND  WALLER 


361 


Raised  the  white  rose,  and  trampled  on  the  red, 

Till  love,  triumphing  o'er  the  victor’s  pride, 

Brought  Mars  and  Warwick  to  the  conquered  side  — 
Neglected  Warwick,  whose  bold  hand,  like  fate, 

Gives  and  resumes  the  sceptre  of  our  state, 

Wooes  for  his  Master,  and  with  double  shame, 

Himself  deluded,  mocks  the  princely  dame, 

The  Lady  Bona,  whom  just  anger  burns; 

And  foreign  war  with  civil  rage,  returns. 

Ah  !  spare  your  sword,  where  beauty  is  to  blame, 

Love  gave  the  affront,  and  must  repair  the  same, 

When  France  shall  boast  of  her,  whose  conquering  eyes 
Have  made  the  best  of  English  hearts  their  prize, 

Have  power  to  alter  the  decrees  of  fate, 

And  change  again  the  counsels  of  our  state. 

ON  A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 

No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 

His  arms  might  do  what  this  hath  done. 

It  was  my  heaven’s  extremest  sphere, 

The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer; 

My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love. 

Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that’s  good,  and  all  that’s  fair. 

Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 

Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round! 

ON  LOVE. 

Anger,  in  hasty  words  or  blows, 

Itself  discharges  on  our  foes ; 

And  sorrow,  too,  finds  some  relief 
In  tears,  which  v/ait  upon  our  grief 
So  every  passion,  but  fond  love, 

Unto  its  own  redress  does  move; 


36  2 


EDMUND  WALLER 


But  that  alone  the  wretch  inclines 
To  what  prevents  his  own  designs, 

Makes  him  lament,  and  sigh,  and  weep, 
Disordered,  tremble,  fawn,  and  creep; 
Postures  which  render  him  despised, 

Where  he  endeavors  to  be  prized. 

For  women  —  born  to  be  controlled  — 

Stoop  to  the  forward  and  the  bold; 

Affect  the  haughty  and  the  proud, 

The  gay,  the  frolic,  and  the  loud. 

Who  first  the  generous  steed  oppressed 
Not  kneeling  did  salute  the  beast; 

But  with  high  courage,  life,  and  force, 
Approaching,  tamed  th’  unruly  horse. 

Unwisely  we  the  wiser  East 
Pity,  supposing  them  oppressed 
With  tyrants’  force,  whose  law  is  will, 

By  which  they  govern,  spoil,  and  kill; 

Each  nymph,  but  moderately  fair, 

Commands  with  no  less  rigour  here. 

Should  some  brave  Turk,  that  walks  among 
Elis  twenty  lasses,  bright  and  young, 

Behold  as  many  gallants  here, 

With  modest  guise  and  silent  fear, 

All  to  one  female  idol  bend, 

While  her  high  pride  does  scarce  descend 
To  mark  their  follies,  he  would  swear 
That  these  her  guards  of  eunuchs  were, 

And  that  a  more  majestic  queen, 

Or  humbler  slaves,  he  had  not  seen. 

All  this  with  indignation  spoke. 

In  vain  I  struggle  with  the  yoke 
Of  mighty  Love ;  that  conquering  look 
When  next  beheld,  like  lightning  strook 
My  blasted  soul,  and  made  me  bow 
Lower  than  those  I  pitied  now. 

So  the  tall  stag,  upon  the  brink 
Of  some  smooth  stream  about  to  drink, 
Surveying  there  his  armed  head, 

With  shame  remembers  that  he  fled 
The  scorned  dogs,  resolves  to  try 


EDMUND  WALLER 


363 


The  combat  next;  but  if  their  cry 
Invades  again  his  trembling  ear, 

He  straight  resumes  his  wonted  care ; 
Leaves  the  untasted  spring  behind, 

And,  winged  with  fear,  outflies  the  wind. 

ON  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DWARFS. 

Design  or  chance  makes  others  wive, 

But  nature  did  this  match  contrive : 

Eve  might  as  well  have  Adam  fled, 

As  she  denied  her  little  bed 

To  him,  for  whom  Heaven  seemed  to  frame 

And  measure  out  this  only  dame. 

Thrice  happy  is  that  humble  pair, 

Beneath  the  level  of  all  care  ! 

Over  whose  heads  those  arrows  fly 
Of  sad  distrust  and  jealousy. 

Secured  in  as  high  extreme, 

As  if  the  world  held  none  but  them. 

To  him  the  fairest  nymphs  do  shew 
Like  moving  mountains  topped  with  snow ; 
And  every  man  a  Polypheme 
Does  to  his  Galatea  seem. 

Ah  !  Chloris,  that  kind  Nature  thus 
From  all  the  world  had  severed  us; 

Creating  for  ourselves  us  two, 

As  Love  has  me  for  only  you ! 

FROM  ‘  A  PANEGYRIC  TO  MY  LORD  PROTECTOR.’ 

While  with  a  strong  and  yet  a  gentle  hand, 

You  bridle  faction,  and  our  hearts  command, 
Protect  us  from  ourselves,  and  from  the  foe, 
Make  us  unite,  and  make  us  conquer  too  ; 

Let'  partial  spirits  still  aloud  complain, 

Think  themselves  injured  that  they  cannot  reign, 
And  own  no  liberty,  but  where  they  may 
Without  control  upon  their  fellows  prey. 


EDMUND  WALLER 


Above  the  waves,  as  Neptune  shewed  his  face, 

To  chide  the  winds,  and  save  the  Trojan  race, 

So  has  your  Highness,  raised  above  the  rest, 

Storms  of  ambition  tossing  us  repressed. 

Your  drooping  country,  torn  with  civil  hate 
Restored  by  you,  is  made  a  glorious  state ; 

The  seat  of  empire,  where  the  Irish  come, 

And  the  unwilling  Scots,  to  fetch  their  doom. 

The  sea’s  our  own  and  now  all  nations  greet, 

With  bending  sails,  each  vessel  of  our  fleet; 

Your  power  extends  as  far  as  winds  can  blow, 

Or  swelling  sails  upon  the  globe  may  go. 

Heaven,  that  hath  placed  this  island  to  give  law, 

To  balance  Europe,  and  its  states  to  awe, 

In  this  conjunction  doth  on  Britain  smile, 

The  greatest  leader,  and  the  greatest  isle ! 

Whether  this  portion  of  the  world  were  rent 
By  the  rude  ocean  from  the  continent, 

Or  thus  created,  it  was  sure  designed 
To  be  the  sacred  refuge  of  mankind. 

Hither  the  oppressed  shall  henceforth  resort, 

Justice  to  crave,  and  succour  at  your  court; 

And  then  your  Highness,  not  for  ours  alone, 

But  for  the  world’s  Protector  shall  be  known.  .  .  . 

Still  as  you  rise,  the  state  exalted  too, 

Finds  no  distemper  while  ’tis  changed  by  you ; 
Changed  like  the  world’s  great  scene !  when,  without 
noise 

The  rising  sun  night’s  vulgar  lights  destroys. 

Had  you,  some  ages  past,  this  race  of  glory 
Run,  with  amazement  we  should  read  }^our  story ; 

But  living  virtue,  all  achievements  past, 

Meets  envy  still  to  grapple  with  at  last. 


EDMUND  WALLER 


365 


This  Caesar  found ;  and  that  ungrateful  age, 

With  losing  him,  went  back  to  blood  and  rage; 
Mistaken  Brutus  thought  to  break  their  yoke, 

But  cut  the  bond  of  union  with  that  stroke. 

That  sun  once  set,  a  thousand  meaner  stars 
Gave  a  dim  light  to  violence  and  wars ; 

To  such  a  tempest  as  now  threatens  all, 

Did  not  your  mighty  arm  prevent  the  fall. 

If  Rome’s  great  senate  could  not  wield  that  sword, 
Which  of  the  conquered  world  had  made  them  lord, 
What  hope  had  ours,  while  yet  the  power  was  new, 
To  rule  victorious  armies,  but  by  you? 

You,  that  had  taught  them  to  subdue  their  foes, 
Could  order  teach,  and  their  high  sp’rits  compose; 

To  every  duty  could  their  minds  engage, 

Provoke  their  courage,  and  command  their  rage. 

So  when  a  lion  shakes  his  dreadful  mane, 

And  angry  grows,  if  he  that  first  took  pain 
To  tame  his  youth  approach  the  haughty  beast, 

He  bends  to  him  but  frights  away  the  rest. 

As  the  vexed  world,  to  find  repose,  at  last 
Itself  into  Augustus’  arms  did  cast; 

So  England  now  does,  with  like  toil  opprest, 

Her  weary  head  upon  your  bosom  rest. 

Then  let  Muses,  with  such  notes  as  these, 

Instruct  us  what  belongs  unto  our  peace. 

Your  battles  they  hereafter  shall  indite, 

And  draw  the  image  of  our  Mars  in  fight. 

Tell  of  towns  stormed,  and  armies  overrun, 

And  mighty  kingdoms  by  your  conduct  won: 

How,  while  you  thundered,  clouds  of  dust  did  choke 
Contending  troops,  and  seas  lay  hid  in  smoke. 


366 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


Illustrious  acts  high  raptures  do  infuse, 

And  every  conqueror  creates  a  Muse  ! 

Here,  in  low  strains,  your  milder  deeds  we  sing, 
But  there,  my  lord,  we’ll  bays  and  olives  bring 

To  crown  your  head;  while  you  in  triumph  ride 
O’er  conquered  nations,  and  the  sea  beside : 
While  all  your  neighbour  Princes  unto  you, 
Like  Joseph’s  sheaves,  pay  reverence  and  due. 


ALPOLE,  PIorace,  Earl  of  Orford,  an  Eng¬ 


lish  critic  and  wit;  born  at  Houghton,  Nor¬ 


folk,  October  5,  1717;  died  at  Strawberry 


Hill,  March  2,  1797.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir  Rob¬ 
ert  Walpole,  who  is  called  the  foremost  Englishman 
of  his  time.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cam¬ 
bridge,  and  traveled  with  the  poet  Gray.  Returning, 
he  entered  Parliament,  and  continued  to  be  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  it  twenty-seven  years.  He  built  a  nondescript 
edifice  at  Twickenham,  naming  it  Strawberry  Hill, 
and  filled  it  with  costly  works  of  art  and  literature. 
Plis  fame  rests  on  his  letters,  descriptive  of  people 
and  events  of  his  time,  and  numbering  nearly  three 
thousand.  The  first  collection  of  these,  by  Cunning¬ 
ham  (1857-59),  filled  nine  large  octavos.  Scott  and 
Byron  pronounced  the  letters  incomparable.  Besides 
these,  he  was  author  of  AEdes  Walpoliance  (1774), 
describing  his  father’s  pictures ;  The  Castle  of  Otranto, 
an  extravagant  romance ;  Anecdotes  of  Painting; 
Catalogue  of  Engravers :  Catalogue  of  Nohle  and 
Royal  Authors ;  Historic  Doubts  on  the  Life  and  Reign 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


rtf<  *7 
o'-v 

l 

of  Richard  III.;  Reminiscences  of  the  Courts  of 
George  I.  and*  George  II.,  and  memoirs  and  journals 
relating  to  the  reigns  of  the  second  and  third  Georges. 

THE  BRITISH  NAVY. 

When  Britain,  looking  with  a  just  disdain 
Upon  this  gilded  majesty  of  Spain, 

And  knowing  well  that  empire  must  decline 
Whose  chief  support  and  sinews  are  of  coin, 

Our  nation’s  solid  virtue  did  oppose 
To  the  rich  troublers  of  the  world’s  repose. 

And  now  some  months,  encamping  on  the  main, 

Our  naval  army  had  besieged  Spain : 

They  that  the  whole  world’s  monarchy  designed, 

Are  to  their  ports  by  our  bold  fleet  confined, 

From  whence  our  red  cross  they  triumphant  see, 

Riding  without  a  rival  on  the  sea. 

Others  may  use  the  ocean  as  their  road, 

Only  the  English  make  it  their  abode, 

Whose  ready  sails  with  every  wind  can  fly, 

And  make  a  covenant  with  the  unconstant  sky : 

Our  oaks  secure,  as  if  they  there  took  root, 

We  tread  on  billows  with  a  steady  foot. 

AT  PENSHURST. 

While  in  this  park  I  sing,  the  listening  deer 
Attend  my  passion,  and  forget  to  fear ; 

When  to  the  beeches  I  report  my  flame, 

They  bow  their  heads,  as  if  they  felt  the  same. 

To  gods  appealing,  when  I  reach  their  bowers 
With  loud  complaints,  they  answer  me  in  showers. 

To  thee  a  wild  and  cruel  soul  is  given, 

More  deaf  than  trees,  and  prouder  than  the  heaven  ! 
Love’s  foe  professed !  why  dost  thou  falsely  feign 
Thyself  a  Sidney?  from  which  noble  strain 
He  sprung,  that  could  so  far  exalt  the  name 
Of  Love,  and  warm  our  nation  with  his  flame. 

That  all  we  can  of  love  or  high  desire, 


368 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


Seems  but  the  smoke  of  amorous  Sidney’s  fire. 

Nor  call  her  mother  who  so  well  does  prove 
One  breast  may  hold  both  chastity  and  love. 

Never  can  she,  that  so  exceeds  the  spring 
In  joy  and  bounty,  be  supposed  to  bring 
One  so  destructive.  To  no  human  stock 
We  owe  this  fierce  unkindness,  but  the  rock; 

That  cloven  rock  produced  thee,  by  whose  side 
Nature,  to  recompense  the  fatal  pride 
Of  such  stern  beauty,  placed  those  healing  springs 
Which  not  more  help  than  that  destruction  brings. 

The  heart  no  ruder  than  the  rugged  stone, 

I  might,  like  Orpheus,  with  my  numerous  moan 
Melt  to  compassion;  now  my  traitorous  song 
With  thee  conspires  to  do  the  singer  wrong; 

While  thus  I  suffer  not  myself  to  lose 
The  memory  of  what  augments  my  woes ; 

But  with  my  own  breath  still  foment  the  fire, 

Which  flames  as  high  as  fancy  can  aspire  ! 

This  last  complaint  the  indulgent  ears  did  pierce 
Of  just  Apollo,  president  of  verse; 

Highly  concerned  that  the  Muse  should  bring 
Damage  to  one  whom  he  had  taught  to  sing 
Thus  he  advised  me :  ‘  On  yon  aged  tree 

Hang  up  thy  lute,  and  hie  thee  to  the  sea, 

That  there  with  wonders  thy  diverted  mind 
Some  truce,  at  least,  may  with  this  passion  find. 

Ah,  cruel  nymph  !  from  whom  her  humble  swain 
Flies  for  relief  unto  the  raging  main, 

And  from  the  winds  and  tempests  does  expect 
A  milder  fate  than  from  her  cold  neglect ! 

Yet  there  he’ll  pray  that  the  unkind  may  prove 
Blest  in  her  choice;  and  vows  this  endless  love 
Springs  from  no  hope  of  what  she  can  confer, 

But  from  those  gifts  which  Heaven  has  heaped  on  her 


STRAWBERRY  HILL. 

You  perceive  that  I  have  got  into  a  new  camp,  and  have 
left  my  tub  at  Windsor.  It  is  a  little  plaything  house  that 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


369 


I  have  got  out  of  this  Chevenix’s  shop  [Strawberry  Hill 
had  been  occupied  by  Mrs.  Chevenix,  a  toy-woman!],  and 
is  the  prettiest  bauble  you  ever  saw.  It  is  set  in  enam¬ 
elled  meadows,  with  filigree  hedges  — 

A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 

And  little  fishes  wave  their  wings  of  gold. 

Two  delightful  roads,  that  you  would  call  dusty,  supply  me 
continually  with  coaches  and  chaises;  and  barges,  as 
solemn  as  barons  of  the  Exchequer,  move  under  my  win¬ 
dow.  Richmond  Hill  and  Ham  Walks  bound  my  pros¬ 
pect  ;  but,  thank  God  !  the  Thames  is  between  me  and  the 
Duchess  of  Queensberry.  Dowagers,  as  plenty  as  floun¬ 
ders,  inhabit  all  around;  and  Pope’s  ghost  is  just  now, 
.skimming  under  my  window  by  a  most  poetical  moonlight. 


THE  SCOTTISH  REBELLION. —  Nov.  15,  I745. 

I  told  you  in  my  last  what  disturbance  there  had  been 
about  the  new  regiments ;  the  affair  of  rank  was  again 
disputed  on  the  report  till  ten  at  night,  and  carried  by  a 
majority  of  twenty-three.  The  king  had  been  persuaded 
to  appear  for  it,  though  Lord  Granville  made  it  a  party- 
point  against  Mr.  Pelham.  Winnington  did  not  speak. 
I  was  not  there,  for  I  could  not  vote  for  it,  and  yielded 
not  to  give  any  hindrance  to  a  public  measure  —  or  at 
least  what  was  called  so — just  now.  The  prince  acted 
openly,  and  influenced  his  people  against  it;  but  it  only 
served  to  let  Mr.  Pelham  see  what,  like  everything  else, 
he  did  not  know  —  how  strong  he  is.  The  prince  will 
scarce  speak  to  him,  and  he  cannot  yet  get  Pitt  into  place. 

The  rebels  are  come  into  England ;  for  two  days  we 
believed  them  near  Lancaster,  but  the  ministry  now  own 
that  they  don’t  know  if  they  have  passed  Carlisle.  Some 
think  they  will  besiege  that  town,  which  has  an  old  wall, 
and  all  the  militia  in  it  of  Cumberland  and  Westmore¬ 
land  ;  but  as  they  can  pass  by  it,  I  don’t  see  why  they 
should  take  it,  for  they  are  not  strong  enough  to  leave 
garrisons.  Several  desert  them  as  they  advance  south; 
Vol.  XXIII.— 24 


3/0 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


and  altogether,  good  men  and  bad,  nobody  believes  them 
ten  thousand.  By  their  marching  westward  to  avoid 
Wade,  it  is  evident  that  they  are  not  strong  enough  to 
fight  him.  They  may  yet  retire  back  into  their  moun¬ 
tains,  but  if  once  they  get  to  Lancaster,  their  retreat  is 
cut  off;  for  Wade  will  not  stir  from  Newcastle  till  he 
has  embarked  them  deep  into  England,  and  then  he  will 
be  behind  them.  He  has  sent  General  Handasyde  from 
Berwick  with  two  regiments  to  take  possession  of  Edin¬ 
burgh.  The  rebels  are  certainly  in  a  very  desperate 
situation;  they  dared  not  meet  Wade;  and  if  they  had 
waited  for  him,  their  troops  would  have  deserted.  Unless 
they  meet  with  great  risings  in  their  favour  in  Lan¬ 
cashire,  I  don’t  see  what  they  can  hope,  except  from  a 
continuation  of  our  neglect.  That,  indeed,  has  nobly 
exerted  itself  for  them.  They  were  suffered  to  march 
the  whole  length  of  Scotland,  and  take  possession  of  the 
capital,  without  a  man  appearing  against  them.  Then 
two  thousand  men  sailed  to  them,  to  run  from  them.  Till 
the  flight  of  Cope’s  army,  Wade  was  not  sent.  Two 
roads  still  lay  into  England,  and  till  they  had  chosen  that 
which  Wade  had  not  taken,  no  army  was  thought  of 
being  sent  to  secure  the  other.  Now  Ligonier,  with  seven 
old  regiments,  and  six  of  the  new,  is  ordered  to  Lan¬ 
cashire;  before  this  first  division  of  the  army  could  get 
to  Coventry,  they  are  forced  to  order  it  to  halt,  for  fear 
the  enemy  should  be  up  with  it  before  it  was  all  assem¬ 
bled.  It  is  uncertain  if  the  rebels  will  march  to  the  north 
of  Wales  to  Bristol,  or  towards  London.  If  to  the  latter, 
Ligonier  must  fight  them ;  if  to  either  of  the  other,  which 
I  hope,  the  two  armies  may  join  and  drive  them  into  a 
corner,  where  they  must'  all  perish.  They  cannot  subsist 
in  Wales  but  by  being  supplied  by  the  papists  in  Ireland. 
The  best  is,  that  we  are  in  no  fear  from  France;  there 
is  no  preparation  for  invasions  in  any  of  their  ports. 
Lord  Clancarty,  a  Scotchman  of  great  parts,  but  mad 
and  drunken,  and  whose  family  forfeited  £90,000  a  year 
for  King  James,  is  made  vice-admiral  at  Brest.  The 
Duke  of  Bedford  goes  in  his  little  round  person  with 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


37  r 


his  regiment;  he  now  takes  to  the  land,  and  says  he  is 
tired  of  being  a  pen-and-ink  man.  Lord  Gower  insisted, 
too,  upon  going  with  his  regiment,  but  is  laid  up  with 
the  gout. 

With  the  rebels  in  England,  you  may  imagine  we  have 
no  private  news,  nor  think  of  foreign.  From  this  ac¬ 
count  you  may  judge  that  our  case  is  far  from  desperate, 
though  disagreeable.  The  prince,  while  the  princess 
lies-in,  has  taken  to  give  dinners,  to  which  he  asks  two 
of  the  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  two  of  the  maids  of 
honour,  & c.,  by  turns,  and  five  or  six  others.  He  sits  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  drinks  and  harangues  to  all  this 
medley  till  nine  at  night;  and  the  other  day,  after  the 
affair  of  the  regiments,  drank  Mr.  Fox’s  health  in  a  bum- 
per,  with  three  huzzas,  for  opposing  Mr.  Pelham : 


“  Si  qua  fata  aspera  rumpas, 

Tu  Marcellus  eris  !  ” 

[Ah!  couldst  thou  break  through  Fate’s  severe  decree, 
A  new  Marcellus  shall  arise  in  thee. —  Dryden.~\ 


You  put  me  in  pain  for  my  eagle,  and  in  more  for 
the  Chutes,  whose  zeal  is  very  heroic,  but  very  ill 
placed.  I  long  to  hear  that  all  my  Chutes  and  eagles 
are  safe  out  of  the  Pope’s  hands  !  Pray,  wish  the  Suar- 
eses  joy  of  all  their  espousals.  Does  the  princess  pray 
abundantly  for  her  friend  the  Pretender  ?  Is  she  ex¬ 
tremely  abattue  with  her  devotion?  and  does  she  fast  till 
she  has  got  a  violent  appetite  for  simper?  And  then, 
does  she  eat  so  long,  that  old  Sarrasin  is  quite  impatient 
to  go  to  cards  again  ?  Good-night !  I  intend  you  shall 
still  be  resident  from  King  George. 

PS. —  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  other  day  I  con¬ 
cluded  the  ministry  knew  the  danger  was  all  over;  for 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  ventured  to  have  the  Pretender’s 
declaration  burnt  at  the  Royal  Exchange. 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


NOV.  22,  1745. 

For  these  two  days  we  have  been  expecting  news  of  a 
battle.  Wade  marched  last  Saturday  from  Newcastle, 
and  must  have  got  up  with  the  rebels  if  they  stayed  for 
him,  though  the  roads  are  exceedingly  bad,  and  great' 
quantities  of  snow  have  fallen.  But  last  night  there  was 
some  notice  of  a  body  of  rebels  being  advanced  to  Pen¬ 
rith.  We  were  put  into  great  spirits  by  a  heroic  letter 
from  the  mayor  of  Carlisle,  who  had  fired  on  the  rebels 
and  made  them  retire;  he  concluded  with  saying:  “  And 
so  I  think  the  town  of  Carlisle  has  done  his  majesty  more 
service  than  the  great  city  of  Edinburgh,  or  than  all 
Scotland  together?  But  this  hero,  who  was  grown  the 
whole  fashion  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  had  chosen  to 
stop  all  other  letters.  The  king  spoke  of  him  at  his  levee 
with  great  encomiums;  Lord  Stair  said:  “Yes,  sir; 
Mr.  Patterson  has  behaved  very  bravely.”  The  Duke  of 
Bedford  interrupted  him:  “My  lord,  his  name  is  not 
Patterson ;  that  is  a  Scotch  name;  his  name  is  PattinsonC 
But,  alack !  the  next  day  the  rebels  returned,  having 
placed  the  women  and  children  of  the  country  in  wagons 
in  front  of  their  army,  and  forcing  the  peasants  to  fix  the 
scaling-ladders.  The  great  Mr.  Pattinson,  or  Patterson 
—  for  now  his  name  may  be  which  one  pleases  —  in¬ 
stantly  surrendered  the  town,  and  agreed  to  pay  two 
thousand  pounds  to  save  it  from  pillage. 

August  1,  1746. 

I  am  this  moment  come  from  the  conclusion  of  the 
greatest  and  most  melancholy  scene  I  ever  yet  saw  !  you 
will  easily  guess  it  was  the  trials  of  the  rebel  lords.  As 
it  was  the  most  interesting  sight,  it  was  the  most  solemn 
and  fine;  a  coronation  is  a  puppet-show,  and  all  the 
splendour  of  it,  idle ;  but  this  sight  at  once  feasted  one’s 
eyes  and  engaged  all  one’s  passions.  It  began  last  Mon¬ 
day;  three-parts  of  Westminster  Hall  were  inclosed  with 
galleries,  and  hung  with  scarlet;  and  the  whole  ceremony 
was  conducted  with  the  most  awful  solemnity  and  de¬ 
cency,  except  in  the  one  point  of  leaving  the  prisoners 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


373 


at  the  bar,  amidst  the  idle  curiosity  of  some  crowd,  and 
even  with  the  witnesses  who  had  sworn  against  them, 
while  the  Lords  adjourned  to  their  own  house  to  consult. 
No  part  of  the  royal  family  was  there,  which  was  a 
proper  regard  to  the  unhappy  men  who  were  become  their 
victims.  One  hundred  and  thirty-nine  Lords  were  pres¬ 
ent,  and  made  a  noble  sight  on  their  benches  frequent 
and  full!  The  Chancellor  was  Lord  High  Steward;  but 
though  a  most  comely  personage  with  a  fine  voice,  his 
behaviour  was  mean,  curiously  searching  for  occasion 
to  bow  to  the  minister  that  is  no  peer,  and  consequently 
applying  to  the  other  ministers,  in  a  manner,  for  their 
orders;  and  not  even  ready  to  the  ceremonial.  To  the 
prisoners  he  was  peevish;  and  instead  of  keeping  up  to 
the  humane  dignity  of  the  law  of  England,  whose  char¬ 
acter  it  is  to  point  out  favour  to  the  criminal,  he  crossed 
them,  and  almost  scolded  at  any  offer  they  made  towards 
defence.  I  had  armed  myself  with  all  the  resolution  I 
could,  with  the  thought  of  their  crimes  and  of  the  danger 
past,  and  was  assisted  by  the  sight  of  the  Marquis  of 
Lothian  in  weepers  for  his  son,  who  fell  at  Culloden  — 
but  the  first  appearance  of  the  prisoners  shocked  me ; 
their  behaviour  melted  me  !  Lord  Kilmarnock  and  Lord 
Cromartie  are  both  past  forty,  but  look  younger.  Lord 
Kilmarnock  is  tall  and  slender,  with  an  extreme  fine  per¬ 
son;  his  behavior  is  a  most  just  mixture  between  dignity 
and  submission;  if  in  anything  to  be  reprehended,  a  little 
affected,  and  his  hair  too  exactly  dressed  for  a  man  in 
his  situation;  but  when  I  say  this,  it  is  not  to  find  fault 
with  him,  but'  to  shew  how  little  fault  there  was  to  be 
found.  Lord  Cromartie  is  an  indifferent  figure,  appeared 
much  dejected,  and  rather  sullen:  he  dropped  a  few  tears 
the  first  day,  and  swooned  as  soon  as  he  got  back  to  his 
cell.  For  Lord  Balmerino,  he  is  the  most  natural  brave 
old  fellow  I  ever  saw;  the  highest  intrepidity,  even  to 
indifference.  At  the  bar  he  behaved  like  a  soldier  and 
a  man ;  in  the  intervals  of  form,  with  carelessness  and 
humour.  He  pressed  extremely  to  have  his  wife,  his 
pretty  Peggy,  with  him  in  the  Tower.  Lady  Cromartie 
only  sees  her  husband  through  the  grate,  not  choosing 
to  be  shut  up  with  him,  as  she  thinks  she  can  serve  him 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


better  by  her  intercession  without.  When  they  were  to 
be  brought  from  the  Tower  in  separate  coaches,  there 
was  some  dispute  in  which  the  axe  must  go  —  old  Bab 
merino  cried,  “  Come,  come,  put  it  with  me.”  At  the  bar, 
he  plays  with  his  fingers  upon  the  axe,  while  he  talks 
to  the  gentleman-jailer;  and  one  day,  somebody  coming 
up  to  listen,  he  took  the  blade  and  held  it  like  a  fan 
between  their  faces.  During  the  trial,  a  little  boy  was 
near  him,  but  not  tall  enough  to  see ;  he  made  room  for 
the  child,  and  placed  him  near  himself.  .  .  . 

When  the  peers  were  going  to  vote,  Lord  Foley  with¬ 
drew,  as  too  well  a  wisher;  Lord  Moray,  as  nephew  of 
Lord  Balmerino  —  and  Lord  Stair,  as,  I  believe,  uncle  to 
his  great-grandfather.  Lord  Windsor,  very  affectedly, 
said,  “  I  am  sorry  I  must  say  guilty  upon  my  honour.” 
Lord  Stamford  would  not  answer  to  the  name  of  Henry, 
having  been  christened  Llarry  —  what  a  great  way  of 
thinking  on  such  an  occasion  !  I  was  diverted  too  with 
old  Norsa,  an  old  Jew  that  kept  a  tavern.  My  brother, 
as  auditor  of  the  exchequer,  has  a  gallery  along  one 
whole  side  of  the  court.  I  said,  “  I  really  feel  for  the 
prisoners  !  ”  Old  Issachar  replied,  “  Feel  for  them  !  pray, 
if  they  had  succeeded,  what  would  have  become  of  all 
us?”  When  my  Lad}^  Townshend  heard  her  husband 
vote,  she  said,  “  I  always  knew  my  lord  was  guilty,  but  I 
never  thought  he  would  own  it  upon  his  honour.”  Lord 
Balmerino  said,  that  one  of  his  reasons  for  pleading 
not  guilty,  was,  that  so  many  ladies  might  not  be  disap¬ 
pointed  of  their  show.  .  .  .  He  said,  “  They  call  me 

Jacobite;  I  am  no  more  a  Jacobite  than  any  that  tried 
me;  but  if  the  Great  Mogul  had  set  up  his  standard,  I 
should  have  followed  it,  for  I  could  not  starve.” 

LONDON  EARTHQUAKES  AND  LONDON  GOSSIP. - Mar.  II, 

1751- 

Portents  and  prodigies  are  grown  so  frequent', 

That  they  have  lost  their  name. 

My  text  is  not  literally  true ;  but  as  far  as  earthquakes 
go  towards  lowering  the  price  of  wonderful  commodities, 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


375 


to  be  sure  we  are  overstocked.  We  have  had  a  second, 
much  more  violent  than  the  first';  and  you  must  not  be 
surprised  if,  by  next  post,  you  hear  of  a  burning  moun¬ 
tain  sprung  up  in  Smithfield.  In  the  night  between 
Wednesday  and  Thursday  last  —  exactly  a  month  since 
the  first  shock  —  the  earth  had  a  shivering  fit  between 
one  and  two,  but  so  slight,  that  if  no  more  had  followed, 
I  don’t  believe  it  would  have  been  noticed.  I  had  been 
awake,  and  had  scarce  dozed  again  —  on  a  sudden  I  felt 
my  bolster  lift  up  my  head ;  I  thought  somebody  was  get¬ 
ting  from  under  my  bed,  but  soon  found  it  was  a  strong 
earthquake,  that  lasted  half  a  minute,  with  a  violent  vibra¬ 
tion  and  great  roaring.  I  rang  my  bell ;  my  servant  came 
in,  frightened  out  of  his  senses ;  in  an  instant  we  heard 
all  the  windows  in  the  neighborhood  flung  up.  I  got  up 
and  found  people  running  into  the  streets,  but  saw  no 
mischief  done :  there  has  been  some ;  two'  old  houses  flung 
down,  several  chimneys,  and  much  china-ware.  The  bells 
rung  in  several  houses.  Admiral  Knowles,  who  has  lived 
long  in  Jamaica,  and  felt  seven  there,  says  this  was  more 
violent  than  any  of  them:  Francesco  prefers  it  to  the 
dreadful  one  at  Leghorn.  The  wise  say,  that  if  we  have 
not  rain  soon,  we  shall  certainly  have  more.  Several 
people  are  going  out  of  town,  for  it  has  nowhere  reached 
above  ten  miles  from  London :  they  say  they  are  not 
frightened,  but  that  it  is  such  fine  weather,  “  Lord !  one 
can’t  help  going  into  the  country !  ”  The  only  visible 
effect  it  has  had  was  on  the  Ridotto,  at  which,  being  the 
following  night,  there  were  but  four  hundred  people.  A 
parson  who  came  into  White’s  the  morning  of  earth¬ 
quake  the  first,  and  heard  bets  laid  on  whether  it  was 
an  earthquake  or  the  blowing  up  of  powder-mills,  went 
away  exceedingly  scandalized,  and  said :  “  I  protest  they 

are  such  an  impious  set  of  people,  that  I  believe  if  the 
last  trumpet  was  to  sound,  they  would  bet  puppet-show 
against  Judgment.”  If  we  get  any  nearer  still  to  the 
torrid  zone,  I  shall  pique  myself  on  sending  you  a  pres¬ 
ent  of  cedrati  and  orange-flower  water ;  I  am  already 
planning  a  terreno  for  Strawberry  Hill. 

The  Middlesex  election  is  carried  against  the  court : 
the  Prince  in  a  green  frock  —  and  I  won’t  swear  but  in  a 


376 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


Scotch  plaid  waistcoat  —  sat  under  the  park-wall  in  his 
chair,  and  hallooed  the  voters  on  to  Brentford.  The 
Jacobites  are  so  transported,  that  they  are  opening  sub¬ 
scriptions  for  all  boroughs  that  shall  be  vacant  —  this  is 
wise  !  They  will  spend  their  money  to  carry  a  few  more 
seats  in  a  parliament  where  they  will  never  have  the 
majority,  and  so  have  none  to  carry  the  general  elections. 
The  omen,  however,  is  bad  for  Westminster ;  the  high- 
bailiff  went  to  vote  for  the  opposition. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  SECOND. 

Do  you  know  I  had  the  curiosity  to  go  to  the  burying 
t’other  night  ?  I  had  never  seen  a  royal  funeral ;  nay, 
I  walked  as  a  rag  of  quality,  which  I  found  would  be, 
and  so  it  was,  the  easiest  way  of  seeing  it.  It  is  abso¬ 
lutely  a  noble  sight.  The  Prince’s  chamber,  hung  with 
purple  and  a  quantity  of  silver  lamps,  the  coffin  under 
a  canopy  of  purple  velvet,  and  six  vast  chandeliers  on  high 
stands,  had  a  very  good  effect'.  The  ambassador  from 
Tripoli  and  his  son  were  carried  to  see  that  chamber. 
The  procession,  through  a  line  of  foot-guards,  every  sev¬ 
enth  man  bearing  a  torch,  the  horse-guards  lining  the 
outside,  their  officers  with  drawn  sabres  and  crape  sashes 
on  horseback,  the  drums  muffled,  the  fifes,  bells  tolling, 
and  minute-guns  —  all  this  was  very  solemn.  But  the 
charm  was  the  entrance  of  the  Abbey,  where  we  were 
received  by  the  Dean  and  Chapter  in  rich  robes,  the  choir 
and  almsmen  bearing  torches ;  the  whole  Abbey  so  illu¬ 
minated,  that  one  saw  it  to  greater  advantage  than  by 
day ;  the  tombs,  long  aisles,  and  fretted  roof  all  appearing 
distinctly,  and  with  the  happiest  chiaroscuro.  There 
wanted  nothing  but  incense,  and  little  chapels  here  and 
there,  with  priests  saying  masses  for  the  repose  of  the 
defunct;  yet,  one  could  not  complain  of  its  not  being 
Catholic  enough.  I  had  been  in  dread  of  being  coupled 
with  some  boy  of  ten  years  old ;  but  the  heralds  were  not 
very  accurate,  and.  I  walked  with  George  Grenville,  taller 
and  older,  to  keep  me  countenance.  When  we  came  to 
the  chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  all  solemnity  and  de- 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


/  7 

corum  ceased ;  no  order  was  observed,  people  sat  or  stood 
where  they  could  or  would;  the  yeoman  of  the  guard 
were  crying  out  for  help,  oppressed  by  the  immense 
weight  of  the  coffin ;  the  Bishop  read  sadly,  and  blundered 
in  the  prayers;  the  fine  chapter,  Man  that  is  born  of  a 
woman,  was  chanted,  not  read;  and  the  anthem,  besides 
being  immeasurably  tedious,  would  have  served  as  well 
for  a  nuptial.  The  really  serious  part  was  the  figure  or 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  heightened  by  a  thousand 
melancholy  circumstances.  He  had  a  dark-brown  adonis, 
and  a  cloak  of  black  cloth,  with  a  train  of  five  yards. 
Attending  the  funeral  of  a  father  could  not  be  pleasant; 
his  leg  extremely  bad,  yet  forced  to  stand  upon  it  near 
two  hours ;  his  face  bloated  and  distorted  with  his  late 
paralytic  stroke,  which  has  affected,  too,  one  of  his  eyes, 
and  placed  over  the  mouth  of  the  vault,  into  which,  in  all 
probability,  he  himself  so  soon  must  descend;  think  how 
unpleasant  a  situation  !  He  bore  it  all  with  a  firm  and 
unaffected  countenance.  This  grave  scene  was  fully  con¬ 
trasted  by  the  burlesque  Duke  of  Newcastle.  He  fell 
into  a  fit  of  crying  the  moment  he  came  into  the  chapel, 
and  flung  himself  back  in  a  stall,  the  Archbishop  hover¬ 
ing  over  him  with  a  smelling-bottle ;  but  in  two  minutes 
his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  his  hypocrisy,  and  he  ran 
about  the  chapel  to  spy  who  was  or  was  not  there,  spy¬ 
ing  with  one  hand,  and  mopping  his  eyes  with  the  other. 
Then  returned  the  fear  of  catching  cold ;  and  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  who  was  sinking  with  heat,  felt  himself 
weighed  down,  and  turning  round,  found  it  was  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  standing  upon  his  train  to  avoid  the  chill 
of  the  marble.  (1760,  November  13.) 

THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE  MARRIED  TO  GEORGE  III. 

Arlington  Street,  September  10,  1761. 

When  we  least  expected  the  Queen,  she  came,  after 
being  ten  days  at  sea,  but  without  sickness  for  above 
half  an  hour.  She  was  gay  the  whole  voyage,  sung  to 
her  harpsichord,  and  left  the  door  of  her  cabin  open. 


378 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


They  made  the  coast  of  Suffolk  last  Saturday,  and  on 
Monday  morning  she  landed  at  Harwich;  so  prosper¬ 
ously  has  Lord  Anson  executed  his  commission.  She  lay 
that  night  at  your  old  friend  Lord  Abercorn’s,  at  Witham, 
in  Essex;  and,  if  she  judged  by  her  host,  must  have 
thought  that  she  was  coming  to  reign  in  the  realm  of 
taciturnity.  She  arrived  at  St.  James’s  at  a  quarter  after 
three  on  Tuesday  the  8th.  When  she  first  saw  the  palace 
she  turned  pale ;  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  smiled.  “  My 
dear  Duchess,”  said  the  Princess,  “you  may  laugh;  you 
have  been  married  twice;  but  it  is  no  joke  to  me.”  Is 
this  a  bad  proof  of  her  sense?  On  the  journey  they 
wanted  her  to  curl  her  toupet.  “  No,  indeed,”  said  she, 
“  I  think  it  looks  as  well  as  those  of  the  ladies  who  have 
been  sent  for  me ;  if  the  King  would  have  me  wear  a  peri¬ 
wig,  I  will;  otherwise  I  shall  let  myself  alone.”  The 
Duke  of  York  gave  her  his  hand  at  the  garden-gate ;  her 
lips  trembled,  but  she  jumped  out  with  spirit.  In  the 
garden  the  King  met  her :  she  would  have  fallen  at  his 
feet;  he  prevented  and  embraced  her,  and  led  her  into  the 
apartments,  where  she  was  received  by  the  Princess  of 
Wales  and  Lady  Augusta.  These  three  Princesses  only 
dined  with  the  King.  At  ten  the  procession  went  to  the 
chapel,  preceded  by  unmarried  daughters  of  peers  and 
peeresses  in  plenty.  The  new  Princess  was  led  by  the 
Duke  of  York  and  Prince  William;  the  Archbishop  mar¬ 
ried  them ;  the  King  talked  to  her  the  whole  time  with 
great  good-humor,  and  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  gave  her 
away.  She  is  not  tall  nor  a  beauty ;  pale  and  very  thin ; 
but  looks  sensible,  and  is  genteel.  Her  hair  is  darkish 
and  fine ;  her  forehead  low,  her  nose  very  well,  except  the 
nostrils  spreading  too  wide ;  her  mouth  has  the  same 
fault,  but  her  teeth  are  good.  She  talks  a  good  deal,  and 
French  tolerably;  possesses  herself,  is  frank,  but  with 
great  respect  to  the  King.  After  the  ceremony,  the  whole 
company  came  into  the  drawing-room  for  about  ten  min¬ 
utes,  but  nobody  was  presented  that  night'.  The  Queen 
was  in  white  and  silver;  an  endless  mantle  of  violet- 
colored  velvet,  lined  with  ermine,  and  attempted  to  be 
fastened  on  her  shoulders  by  a  bunch  of  large  pearls, 
■  dragged  itself  and  almost  the  rest  of  her  clothes  half-way 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


379 


down  her  waist.  On  her  head  was  a  beautiful  little  tiara 
of  diamonds ;  a  diamond  necklace,  and  a  stomacher  of 
diamonds  worth  three  score  thousand  pounds,  which  she 
is  to  wear  at  the  Coronation,  too. 

THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

The  Cabinet  have  determined  on  a  civil  war.  .  .  . 

There  is  food  for  meditation!  Will  the  French  you  con¬ 
verse  with  be  civil  and  keep  their  countenances  ?  Pray 
remember  it  is  not  decent  to  be  dancing  at  Paris,  when 
there  is  civil  war  in  your  own  country.  You  would  be 
like  the  country  squire,  who  passed  by  with  his  hounds 
when  the  battle  of  Edgehill  began.  (1775,  January  22.) 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  town  of  Birmingham  has 
petitioned  the  Parliament  to  enforce  the  American  Acts, 
that  is,  make  war;  for  they  have  a  manufacture  of  swords 
and  muskets.  (1775,  January  27.) 

The  war  with  our  Colonies,  which  is  now  declared,  is 
a  proof  how  much  influence  jargon  has  on  human  af¬ 
fairs.  A  war  on  our  own  trade  is  popular!  Both 
Houses  are  as  eager  for  it  as  they  were  for  conquering 
the  Indies  —  which  acquits  them  a  little  of  rapine,  when 
they  are  as  glad  of  what  will  impoverish  them  as  of  what 
they  fancied  was  to  enrich  them.  (1775,  February.) 

You  will  not  be  surprised  that  I  am  what  I  always  was, 
a  zealot  for  liberty  in  every  part  of  the  globe,  and  con¬ 
sequently  that  I  most  heartily  wish  success  to  the  Amer¬ 
icans.  They  have  hitherto  not  made  one  blunder;  and 
the  Administration  have  made  a  thousand,  besides  two 
capital  ones,  of  first  provoking,  and  then  uniting  the 
Colonies.  The  latter  seem  to  have  as  good  heads  as 
hearts,  as  we  want  both.  (1775,  September  7.) — Letters. 

LETTER  TO  SIR  HORACE  MANN. 

Arlington  Street,  March  17,  1757. 

Admiral  Byng’s  tragedy  was  completed  on  Monday  — 
a  perfect  tragedy,  for  there  were  variety  of  incidents, 
villainy,  murder,  and  a  hero !  His  sufferings,  persecu¬ 
tions,  aspersions,  disturbances,  nay,  the  revolutions  of 


380 


HORACE  WALPOLE 


his  fate,  had  not  in  the  least  unhinged  his  mind ;  his 
whole  behavior  was  natural  and  firm.  A  few  days  be¬ 
fore,  one  of  his  friends  standing  by  him,  said,  “  Which  of 
us  is  tallest?’’  He  replied,  “Why  this  ceremony?  I 
know  what  it  means;  let  the  man  come  and  measure  me 
for  my  coffin.”  He  said,  that  being  acquitted  of  coward¬ 
ice,  and  being  persuaded  on  the  coolest  reflection  that  he 
had  acted  for  the  best,  and  should  act  so  again,  he  was 
not  unwilling  to  suffer.  He  desired  to  be  shot  on  the 
quarter-deck,  not  where  common  malefactors  are ;  came 
out  at  twelve,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  for  he  would  not 
kneel,  and  refused  to  have  his  face  covered,  that  his 
countenance  might  show  whether  he  feared  death ;  but 
being  told  that  it  might  frighten  his  executioners,  he  sub¬ 
mitted,  gave  the  signal  at  once,  received  one  shot  through 
the  head,  another  through  the  heart,  and  fell.  Do  cow¬ 
ards  live  or  die  thus?  Can  that  man  want  spirit  who 
only  fears  to  terrify  his  executioners? 

This  scene  is  over  !  what  will  be  the  next  is  matter  of 
great  uncertainty.  The  new  Ministers  are  well  weary 
of  their  situation;  without  credit  at  court,  without  in¬ 
fluence  in  the  House  of  Commons,  undermined  every¬ 
where,  I  believe  they  are  too  sensible  not  to  desire  to  be 
delivered  of  their  burden,  which  those  who  increase  yet 
dread  to  take  on  themselves.  Mr.  Pitt’s  health  is  as  bad 
as  his  situation ;  confidence  between  the  other  factions 
almost  impossible ;  yet  I  believe  their  impatience  will 
prevail  over  their  distrust.  The  nation  expects  a  change 
every  day,  and  being  a  nation,  I  believe,  desires  it;  and 
being  the  English  nation,  will  condemn  it  the  moment 
it  is  made.  These  are  the  politics  of  the  week :  the 
diversions  are  balls,  and  the  two  Princes  frequent  them ; 
but  the  eldest  nephew  [afterward  George  IIP]  remains 
shut  up  in  a  room,  where,  as  desirous  as  they  are  of 
keeping  him,  I  believe  he  is  now  and  then  incommode. 
The  Duke  of  Richmond  has  made  two  balls  on  his  ap¬ 
proaching  wedding  with  Lady  Mary  Bruce  (Mr.  Con¬ 
way’s  daughter-in-law)  :  it  is  the  perfectest  match  in  the 
world ;  youth,  beauty,  riches,  alliances,  and  all  the  blood 
of  all  the  kings  from  Robert  Bruce  to  Charles  II.  They 


IZAAK  WALTON  381 

are  the  prettiest  couple  in  England,  except  the  father- 
in-law  and  mother. 

As  I  write  so  often  to  you,  you  must  be  content  with 
shorter  letters,  which,  however,  are  always  as  long  as  I 
can  make  them.  This  summer  will  not  contract  our 
correspondence.  Adieu !  my  dear  Sir. 


ALTON,  Izaak,  an  English  biographer  and 
essayist,  known  as  the  “  father  of  angling  ” ; 
born  at  Stafford,  August  9,  1593;  died  at 
Winchester,  December  15,  1683.  He  went  to  London 
at  an  early  age,  where  he  entered  into  the  business 
of  “  sempster,”  or  linen-draper,  which  he  carried  on 
in  a  “  little  shop  seven  feet  and  a  half  long,  and  five 
feet  wide.”  At  fifty  he  retired  with  a  competency,  and 
passed  the  remaining  forty  years  of  his  life  in  easy 
quiet.  Tradesman  in  a  moderate  way  as  he  was,  he 
moved  in  intellectual  society.  His  principal  works 
are  Life  of  Dr.  Donne  (1640)  ;  Life  of  Sir  Henry 
Wotton  (1651)  ;  The  Complete  Angler,  or  Contem¬ 
plative  Man's  Recreation  (1655)  1  Life  of  Richard 
Hooker  (1662)  ;  Life  of  George  Herbert  (1670)  ;  Life 
of  Bishop  Sanderson  (1678),  and  two  letters  on  The 
Distempers  of  the  Times  (1680). 

Walton’s  great  work  is  The  Complete  Angler,  a 
treatise  on  his  favorite  art  of  fishing,  in  which  the 
precepts  for  the  sport  are  combined  with  such  inimita¬ 
ble  descriptions  of  English  river  scenery,  such  charm¬ 
ing  dialogues,  and  so  prevailing  a  tone  of  gratitude 
for  God’s  goodness,  that  the  book  is  absolutely  unique 
in  literature.  The  passion  of  the  English  for  all  kinds 
of  field-sports  and  out-of-door  amusements  is  closely 


332 


IZAAK  WALTON 


connected  with  sensibility  to  the  loveliness  of  rural 
nature ;  and  the  calm  home-scenes  of  our  national 
scenery  are  reflected  with  a  loving  truth  in  Walton’s 
descriptions  of  those  quiet  rivers  and  daisied  meadows 
which  the  good  old  man  haunted,  rod  in  hand.  The 
treatise,  with  a  quaint  gravity  that  adds  to  its  charm, 
is  thrown  into  a(  series  of  dialogues,  first  between 
Piscator  Venator,  and  Auceps,  each  of  whom  in  turn 
proclaims  the  superiority  of  his  favorite  sport,  and 
afterwards  between  Piscator  and  Venator,  the  latter  of 
whom  is  converted  by  the  angler,  and  becomes  his  dis¬ 
ciple.  Mixed  up  with  technical  precepts,  now  become 
a  little  obsolete,  are  an  infinite  number  of  descriptions 
of  angling-days,  together  with  dialogues  breathing  the 
sweetest  sympathy  with  natural  beauty  and  a  pious  phi¬ 
losophy  that  make  Walton  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
teachers  of  virtue  and  religion.  The  expressions  are 
as  pure  and  sweet  and  graceful  as  the  sentiment ;  and 
the  occasional  occurrence  of  a  little  touch  of  old-fash¬ 
ioned,  innocent  pedantry  only  adds  to  the  indefinable 
fascination  of  the  work,  breaking  up  its  monotony 
like  a  ripple  upon  the  sunny  surface  of  a  stream.  No 
other  literature  possesses  a  book  similar  to  The  Com¬ 
plete  Angler,  the  popularity  of  which  seems  likely  to 
last  as  long  as  the  language. 

The  greater  part  in  the  conversation  is  borne  by 
Piscator,  although  the  others  have  not  a  few  pleasant 
things  to  say  about  their  respective  crafts,  as  the  sub¬ 
joined,  by  Auceps : 

ENGLISH  BIRDS  OF  SONG. 

At  first  the  lark,  when  she  means  to  rejoice,  to  cheer 
herself,  and  those  that  hear  her,  she  then  quits  the 
earth,  and  sings  as  she  ascends  higher  into  the  air ;  and 


IZAAK  WALTON 


3§3 


having  ended  her  heavenly  employment,  grows  then, 
mute  and  sad,  to  think  she  must  descend  to  the  dull 
earth,  which  she  would  not  touch  but  for  necessity. 
How  do  the  blackbird  and  the  throssel,  with  their  me¬ 
lodious  voices,  bid  welcome  to  the  cheerful  Spring,  and 
in  their  fixed  mouths  warble  forth  such  ditties  as  no  art 
or  instrument  can  reach  to.  Nay,  the  smaller  birds  do 
the  like  in  their  particular  seasons ;  as,  namely,  the 
laverock,  the  titlark,  the  little  linnet,  and  the  honest 
robin,  that  loves  mankind,  both  alive  and  dead.  But  the 
nightingale,  another  of  my  airy  creatures,  breathes  such 
sweet,  loud  music  out  of  her  little,  instrumental  throat 
that  it  might  make  mankind  to  think  miracles  are  not 
ceased.  He  that  at  midnight,  when  the  very  laborer 
sleeps  securely,  should  hear  —  as  I  have  very  often  —  the 
clear  airs,  the  sweet  descants,  the  natural  rising  and 
falling,  the  doubling  and  redoubling  of  her  voice,  might 
well  be  lifted  above  earth,  and  say :  “  Lord,  what  music 
hast  Thou  provided  for  the  saints  in  heaven,  when  Thou 
affordest  to  bad  men  such  music  upon  earth !  ” — The 
Complete  Angler. 

To  Izaak  Walton  angling  is  the  chief  end  of  man. 
“  It  is,”  says  he,  “  something  like  poetry  —  men  must 
be  borne  to  it.”  The  Saviour  nowhere  rebukes 
anglers  for  their  occupation,  “  for  He  found  that  the 
hearts  of  such  men,  by  nature,  were  fitted  for  con¬ 
templation  and  quietness ;  men  of  mild,  and  sweet,  and 
peaceable  spirits,  as  indeed  most  anglers  are.”  He 
loves  the  fish  which  he  catches,  and  even  the  live 
bait  by  means  of  which  they  are  caught ;  though  the 
frogs  so  used  might  have  failed  to  appreciate  his 
benevolence. 


TREATING  TTIE  BAIT-FROG. 

And  thus  use  your  frog  that  he  may  continue  long 
alive;  put  your  hook  into  his  mouth,  which  you  may 
easily  do  from  the  middle  of  April  till  August;  and  then 


384 


1ZAAK  WALTON 


the  frog’s  mouth  grows  up,  and  he  continues  so  for 
at  least  six  months  without  eating,  but  is  sustained  none 
but  He  whose  name  is  Wonderful  knows  how.  I  say,  put 
your  hook  —  I  mean  the  arming-wire  —  through  his 
mouth  and  out  at  his  gills;  and  with  a  fine  needle  and  silk 
sew  the  upper  part  of  his  leg,  with  only  one  stitch,  to  the 
arming-wire  of  your  hook ;  or  tie  the  frog’s  leg  above 
the  upper  joint  to  the  arming-wire;  and  in  so  doing, 
use  him  as  though  you  loved  him ;  that  is,  harm  him  as 
little  as  possible,  that  he  may  live  the  longer. —  The  Com¬ 
plete  Angler. 

Piscator,  who  has  succeeded  in  convincing  Venator 
of  the  superiority  of  angling,  brings  his  converse  with 
him  to  a  close  by  a  long  moral  discourse  which  thus 
concludes : 

THANKFULNESS  FOR  WORLDLY  BLESSINGS. 

Well,  scholar,  having  n6w  taught  you  to  paint  your 
rod,  and  we  having  still  a  mile  to  Tottenham  High  Cross, 
I  will,  as  we  walk  towards  it  in  the  cool  shade  of  this 
sweet  honeysuckle-hedge,  mention  tO'  you  some  of  the 
thoughts  and  joys  that  have  possessed  my  soul  since  we 
two  met  together.  And  these  thoughts  shall  be  told  you, 
that  you  also  may  join  with  me  in  thankfulness  to  the 
Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift  for  our  happiness. 
And  that  our  present  happiness  may  appear  to  be  the 
greater,  and  we  the  more  thankful  for  it,  I  will  beg  you 
to  consider  with  me  how  many  do,  even  at  this  very  time, 
lie  under  the  torment  of  the  stone,  the  gout,  and  tooth¬ 
ache  ;  and  this  we  are  free  from.  And  every  misery  that 
I  miss  is  a  new  mercy;  and  therefore  let  us  be  thankful. 
There  have  been,  since  we  met,  others  that  have  met 
disasters  of  broken  limbs ;  some  have  been  blasted,  others 
thunder-strucken ;  and  we  have  been  freed  from  these 
and  all  those  many  other  miseries  that  threaten  human 
nature :  let  us  therefore  rejoice  and  be  thankful.  Nay, 
which  is  a  far  greater  mercy,  we  are  free  from  the  un- 
supportable  burden  of  an  accusing,  tormenting  conscience 


IZAAK  WALTON 


385 


—  a  misery  that  none  can  bear ;  and  therefore  let  us 
praise  Him  for  his  preventing  grace,  and  say,  Every  mis¬ 
ery  that  I  miss  is  a  new  mercy.  Nay,  let  me  tell  you, 
there  be  many  that’  have  forty  times  our  estates,  that 
would  give  the  greatest  part  of  it  to  be  healthful  and 
cheerful  like  us,  who,  with  the  expense  of  a  little  money, 
have  eat  and  drank,  and  laughed,  and  angled,  and  sung, 
and  slept  securely;  and  rose  next  day,  and  cast  away 
care,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  and  angled  again,  which 
are  blessings  rich  men  cannot  purchase  with  all  their 
money.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  I  have  a  rich  neighbor 
that  is  always  so  busy  that  he  has  no  leisure  to  laugh ; 
the  whole  business  of  his  life  is  to  get  money,  and  more 
money,  that  he  may  still  get  more  and  more  money ;  he 
is  still  drudging  on,  and  says  that  Solomon  says,  “  The 
hand  of  the  diligent  maketh  rich and  it  is  true  indeed : 
but  he  considers  not  that  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  riches 
to  make  a  man  happy :  for  it  was  wisely  said  by  a  man 
of  great  observation,  ‘  that  there  be  as  many  miseries 
beyond  riches  as  on  this  side  them/  And  yet  God  de¬ 
liver  us  from  pinching  poverty,  and  grant  that,  having  a 
competency,  we  may  be  content  and  thankful !  Let  us 
not  repine,  or  so  much  as  think  the  gifts  of  God  un¬ 
equally  dealt,  if  we  see  another  abound  with  riches, 
when,  as  God  knows,  the  cares  that  are  the  keys  that 
keep  those  riches  hang  often  so  heavily  at  the  rich  man’s 
girdle,  that  they  clog  him  with  weary  days  and  restless 
nights,  even  when  others  sleep  quietly.  We  see  but  the 
outside  of  the  rich  man’s  happiness;  few  consider  him  to 
be  like  the  silkworm,  that,  when  she  seems  to  play,  is  at 
the  very  same  time  spinning  her  own  bowels,  and  con¬ 
suming  herself ;  and  this  many  rich  men  do,  loading 
themselves  with  corroding  cares,  to  keep  what  they  have 
probably  unconscionably  got.  Let  us  therefore  be 
thankful  for  health  and  competence,  and,  above  all,  for 
a  quiet  conscience. 

Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  that  Diogenes  walked  on  a 
day,  with  his  friend,  to  see  a  country  fair,  where  he  saw 
ribbons,  and  looking-glasses,  and  nut-crackers,  and  fid¬ 
dles,  and  hobby-horses,  and  many  other  gimcracks;  and 
having  observed  them,  and  all  the  other  finnimbruns  that 
Vol.  XXIII.— 25 


386 


1ZAAK  WALTON 


make  a  complete  country  fair,  he  said  to  his  friend: 
“  Lord,  how  many  things  are  there  in  this  world  of 
which  Diogenes  hath  no  need  !  ”  And  truly  it  is  so,  or 
might  be  so,  with  very  many  who  vex  and  toil  them¬ 
selves  to  get  what  they  have  no  need  of.  Can  any  man 
charge  God  that  he  hath  not  given  him  enough  to  make 
his  life  happy?  No,  doubtless;  for  nature  is  content  with 
a  little.  And  yet  you  shall  hardly  meet  with  a  man  that 
complains  not  of  some  want,  though  he,  indeed,  wants 
nothing  but  his  will;  it  may  be,  nothing  but  his  will  of 
his  poor  neighbor,  for  not  worshipping  or  not  flattering 
him :  and  thus,  when  we  might  be  happy  and  quiet,  we 
create  trouble  to  ourselves.  I  have  heard  of  a  man  that 
was  angry  with  himself  because  he  was  no  taller ;  and 
of  a  woman  that  broke  her  looking-glass  because  it  would 
not  shew  her  face  to  be  as  young  and  handsome  as  her 
next  neighbor’s  was.  And  I  knew  another  to  whom 
God  had  given  health  and  plenty,  but  a  wife  that  nature 
had  made  peevish,  and  her  husband’s  riches  had  made 
purse-proud;  and  must,  because  she  was  rich,  and  for  no 
other  virtue,  sit  in  the  highest  pew  in  the  church ;  which 
being  denied  her,  she  engaged  her  husband  into  a  conten¬ 
tion  for  it,  and  at  last  into  a  lawsuit  with  a  dogged 
neighbor,  who  was  as  rich  as  he,  and  had  a  wife  as 
peevish  and  purse-proud  as  the  other ;  and  this  lawsuit 
begot  higher  oppositions  and  actionable  words,  and  more 
vexations  and  lawsuits ;  for  you  must  remember  that  both 
were  rich,  and  must  therefore  have  their  wills.  Well, 
this  wilful  purse-proud  lawsuit  lasted  during  the  life  of 
the  first  husband,  after  which  his  wife  vexed  and  chid, 
and  chid  and  vexed,  till  she  also  chid  and  vexed  herself 
into  her  grave ;  and  so  the  wealth  of  these  poor  rich 
people  was  cursed  into  a  punishment,  because  they  wanted 
meek  and  thankful  hearts,  for  those  only  can  make  us 
happy.  I  knew  a  man  that  had  health  and  riches,  and 
several  houses,  all  beautiful  and  ready  furnished,  and 
would  often  trouble  himself  and  family  to  be  removing 
from  one  house  to  another ;  and  being  asked  by  a  friend 
why  he  removed  so  often  from  one  house  to  another, 
replied:  “It  was  to  find  content  in  some  one  of  them.” 
But  his  friend  knowing  his  temper,  told  him  “  if  he  would 


IZAAK  WALTON 


387 


find  content  in  any  of  his  houses,  he  must  leave  himself 
behind  him;  for  content  will  never  dwell  but  in  a  meek 
and  quiet  soul.”  And  this  may  appear,  if  we  read  and 
consider  what  our  Saviour  says  in  St.  Matthew’s  gospel, 
for  he  there  says:  ‘‘Blessed  be  the  merciful,  for  they 
shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed  be  the  pure  in  heart,  for 
they  shall  see  God.  Blessed  be  the  poor  in  spirit,  for 
theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  And  blessed  be  the 
meek,  for  they  shall  possess  the  earth.”  Not  that  the 
meek  shall  not  also  obtain  mercy,  and  see  God,  and  be 
comforted,  and  at  last  come  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; 
but,  in  the  meantime,  he,  and  he  only,  possesses  the  earth, 
as  he  goes  toward  that  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  being 
humble  and  cheerful,  and  content  with  what  his  good 
God  has  allotted  him.  He  has  no  turbulent,  repining, 
vexatious  thoughts  that  he  deserves  better ;  nor  is  vexed 
when  he  sees  others  possessed  of  more  honor  or  more 
riches  than  his  wise  God  has  allotted  for  his  share ;  but 
he  possesses  what  he  has  with  a  meek  and  contented 
quietness,  such  a  quietness  as  makes  his  very  dreams 
pleasing,  both  to  God  and  himself. 

My  honest  scholar,  all  this  is  told  to  incline  you  to 
thankfulness ;  and,  to  incline  you  the  more,  let  me  tell 
you,  that  though  the  prophet  David  was  guilty  of  murder 
and  adultery,  and  many  other  of  the  most  deadly  sins,  yet 
he  was  said  to  be  a  man  after  God’s  own  heart,  because 
he  abounded  more  with  thankfulness  than  any  other  that' 
is  mentioned  in  holy  Scripture,’  as  may  appear  in  his 
book  of  Psalms,  where  there  is  such  a  commixture  of 
his  confessing  of  his  sins  and  unworthiness,  and  such 
thankfulness  for  God’s  pardon  and  mercies,  as  did  make 
him  to  be  accounted,  even  by  God  himself,  to  be  a  man 
after  his  own  heart ;  and  let  us,  in  that,  labour  to  be  as 
like  him  as  we  can :  let  not  the  blessings  we  receive 
daily  from  God  make  us  not  to'  value,  or  not  praise  Him, 
because  they  be  common:  let'  not  us  forget  to  praise  Him 
for  the  innocent  mirth  and  pleasure  we  have  met  with 
since  we  met  together.  What  would  a  blind  man  give  to 
see  the  pleasant  rivers  and  meadows,  and  flowers  and 
fountains,  that  we  have  met  with  since  we  met  together ! 
I  have  been  told,  that  if  a  man  that  was  born  blind  could 


388 


IZAAK  WALTON 


obtain  to  have  his  sight  for  but  only  one  hour  during 
his  whole  life,  and  should,  at  the  first  opening  of  his 
eyes,  fix  his  sight  upon  the  sun  when  it  was  in  his  full 
glory,  either  at  the  rising  or  setting  of  it,  he  would  be  so 
transported  and  amazed,  and  so  admire  the  glory  of  it, 
that  he  would  not  willingly  turn  his  eyes  from  that  first 
ravishing  object  to  behold  all  the  other  various  beauties 
this  world  could  present  to  him.  And  this  and  many 
other  like  blessings  we  enjoy  daily.  And  for  most  of 
them,  because  they  be  so  common,  most  men  forget  to 
pay  their  praises ;  but  let  not  us,  because  it  is  a  sacrifice 
so  pleasing  to  Him  that  made  that  sun  and  us,  and  still 
protects  us,  and  gives  us  flowers,  and  showers,  and  stom¬ 
achs,  and  meat,  and  content,  and  leisure  to  go  a-fishing. 

Well,  scholar,  I  have  almost  tired  myself,  and  I  fear, 
more  than  almost  tired  you.  But  I  now  see  Tottenham 
High  Cross,  and  our  short  walk  thither  will  put  a  period 
to  my  too  long  discourse,  in  which  my  meaning  was,  and 
is,  to  plant  that  in  your  mind  with  which  I  labor  to 
possess  my  own  soul  —  that  is,  a  meek  and  thankful 
heart.  And  to  that  end  I  have  shewed  you,  that  riches 
without  them  (meekness  and  thankfulness)  do  not  make 
any  man  happy.  But  let  me  tell  you  that  riches  with 
them  remove  many  fears  and  cares.  And  therefore  my 
advice  is,  that  you  endeavor  to  be  honestly  rich,  or  con¬ 
tentedly  poor;  but  be  sure  that  your  riches  be  justly  got, 
or  you  spoil  all ;  for  it  is  well  said  by  Caussin :  “  He 

that  loses  his  conscience  has  nothing  left  that  is  worth 
keeping.”  Therefore,  be  sure  you  look  to  that.  And,  in 
the  next  place,  look  to  your  health ;  and  if  you  have  it, 
praise  God,  and  value  it  next  to  a  good  conscience;  for 
health  is  the  second  blessing  that  we  mortals  are  capable 
of  —  a  blessing  that  money  cannot  buy  —  and  therefore 
value  it,  and  be  thankful  for  it.  As  for  money,  which 
may  be  said  to  be  the  third  blessing,  neglect  it  not;  but 
note,  that  there  is  no  necessity  of  being  rich ;  for  I  told 
you  there  be  as  many  miseries  beyond  riches  as  on  this 
side  them;  and  if  you  have  a  competence,  enjoy  it  with 
a  meek,  cheerful,  thankful  heart.  I  will  tell  you,  scholar, 
I  have  heard  a  grave  divine  say  that  God  has  two  dwell¬ 
ings,  one  in  heaven,  and  the  other  in  a  meek  and  thank- 


IZAAK  WALTON 


389 


ful  heart ;  which  Almighty  God  grant  to  me  and  to  my 
honest  scholar  !  And  so  you  are  welcome  to  Tottenham 
High  Cross. 

Venator.  Well,  master,  I  thank  you  for  all  your  good 
directions,  but  for  none  more  than  this  last,  of  thankful¬ 
ness,  which  I  hope  I  shall  never  forget. 

THE  ANGLER’S  WISH. 


I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 

To  whose  harmonious,  bubbling  noise 
I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love; 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west-wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty;  please  my  mind, 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song: 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest ; 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits  and  the  noise 
Of  princes’  courts,  I  would  rejoice; 

Or,  with  my  Bryan*  and  a  book, 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good-morning  to  next  day ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away; 

And  angle  on ;  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 


*  Supposed  to  be  the  name  of  his  dog. 


390 


CLARENCE  ALPHONSUS  WALWORTH 


iALWORTH,  Clarence  Alphonsus,  an 
American  poet;  born  at  Plattsburg,  N.  Y., 
May  30,  1820;  died  at  New  York,  in  1900. 
He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  184*1,  but  after  a  year’s 
practice  in  Rochester  he  renounced  the  law  for  theolo¬ 
gy.  He  studied  for  three  years  at  the  Episcopal  Gen¬ 
eral  Theological  Seminary  in  New  York,  but,  becoming 
a  Roman  Catholic,  he  went  to  Belgium,  and  studied 
with  the  Redemptorists.  He  continued  his  theological 
studies  at  Wittemberg,  and  was  ordained  there.  After 
several  years  of  priestly  duty  in  England,  he  returned 
to  the  United  States  in  1850,  to  travel  at  large  for 
fifteen  years,  engaged  in  missionary  work.  He  is  one 
of  the  founders  of  the  Order  of  Paulists  in  the  United 
States.  In  1864,  his  health  failing,  he  returned  to 
his  home  at  Saratoga,  and  later  he  was  made  rector 
of  St.  Mary’s  parish,  Albany.  His  works  include  The 
Gentle  Skeptic  (i860),  on  the  inspiration  of  the  Old 
Testament  Scriptures;  The  Doctrine  of  Hell  (1874), 
a  discussion  with  William  H.  Burr  ;  and  Andiatorocte, 
or  the  Eve  of  Lady  Day  on  Lake  George ,  and  Other 
Poems,  Hymns  and  Meditations  in  Verse  (1888). 


NIGHT-WATCHING. 


The  clock  strikes  Nine.  I  sink  to  rest 
Upon  a  soft  and  bolstered  bed : 

Jesu,  what  pillow  held  Thy  head, 
What  couch  Thy  breast? 


The  clock  strikes  Ten.  With  sleepless  eye 
I  stare  into  a  spaceless  gloom : 

Come  hither,  wandering  soul ;  stay  home  — 
Voices  are  nigh. 


CLARENCE  ALPHONSUS  WALWORTH 


39i 


Eleven.  Peace,  needless  monitor  ! 

Oh  !  when  the  heart  looks  through  her  tears, 
To  gaze  upon  the  eternal  years, 

What  is  an  hour? 

’Tis  Midnight.  No:  ’tis  holy  noon, 

Love  and  sweet  duty  make  the  day ; 

Night  rules,  with  these  two  suns  away  — 
Night  and  no  moon. 

Another  hour  !  and  yet  no  sleep ; 

The  darkness  grows  with  solemn  light. 

How  full  of  language  is  the  Night, 

And  life  how  deep  ! 

Already  Two  o’clock!  well,  well; 

Myself  and  I  have  met  at  last 
After  long  absence,  and  the  Past 
Has  much  to  tell. 

Ring  out !  ring  out !  my  watch  I  keep. 

O  Night,  I  feel  thy  sacred  power  — 

How  crowded  is  each  holy  hour, 

Borrowed  from  sleep ! 

One,  Two,  Three,  Four !  Ye  speak  to  ears 
That  hear,  but  heed  not  how  ye  roll; 

The  hours  that  measure  for  the  soul 
Are  spaced  by  tears. 

Strikes  Five.  Night’s  solemn  shroud  of  crape 
Begins  to  fill  with  threads  of  gray, 

And,  stealing  on  those  threads  away, 

My  joys  escape. 

Oh,  stay  with  me !  I  fear  the  light, 

With  all  its  sins  and  gay  unrest. 

Sweeter  the  calm  and  conscious  breast 
Of  holy  night. 


—  From  Andiatorocte. 


392  ELIOT  BARTHOLOMEW  WARBURTON 


ARBURTON,  Eliot  Bartholomew  George, 
an  Irish  traveler  and  novelist;  born  near  Tul- 
lamore,  in  1810;  died  at  sea,  January  4, 
1852.  He  was  educated  at  Queen’s  College,  and  at 
Trinity,  Cambridge,  and  became  a  member  of  the  Irish 
bar,  but  gave  up  law  for  travel  and  literature.  His 
book  The  Crescent  and  the  Cross  (1844),  first  pub¬ 
lished  as  Episodes  of  Eastern  Travel  in  the  Dublin 
University  Magazine ,  made  him  widely  known.  Fol¬ 
lowing  this,  he  published  Hochelaga ,  or  England  in  the 
New  World  (1846),  the  title  being  the  ancient  name 
of  Canada;  but  Part  II.  pertaining  to  the  United 
States ;  Memoirs  of  Prince  Rupert  and  the  Cavaliers 
(1849)  5  Darien,  or  the  Merchant  Prince,  and  Memoirs 
of  Horace  Walpole  and  His  Contemporaries  (1851)  ; 
also  Reginald  Hastings,  a  Tale  of  1640-50.  He  per¬ 
ished  in  the  destruction  of  the  West  Indian  mail- 
steamer  Amazon,  lost  off  Land’s  End.  In  Hochelaga 
there  is  a  sketch  of  the  rebellions  and  invasions  of 
Canada  in  1837-38. 

His  Crescent  and  the  Cross,  parts  of  which  were 
first  published  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine, 
under  the  title  Episodes  of  Eastern  Travel,  attracted 
wide-spread  attention,  and  received  praise  from  the 
highest  literary  authorities,  Sir  Archibald  Allison  say¬ 
ing  that  the  descriptions  rivalled  those  of  William 
Beckford  and  that  they  were  indelibly  engraven  on 
the  national  mind. 


MOOSE-HUNTING. 

We  pressed  on  rapidly  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  in  the 
direction  of  the  dogs,  and  came  upon  the  fresh  track  of 


ELIOT  BARTHOLOMEW  WARBURTON 


393 


several  moose.  In  my  eagerness  to  get  forward,  I  stum¬ 
bled  repeatedly,  tripped  by  the  abominable  snow-shoes, 
and  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  the  Indians, 
who,  though  also  violently  excited,  went  on  quite  at  their 
ease.  The  dogs  were  at  a  standstill,  and,  as  we  emerged 
from  the  thick  part  of  the  wood,  we  saw  them  surround¬ 
ing  three  large  moose,  barking  viciously,  but  not  daring 
to  approach  within  reach  of  their  hoofs  or  antlers. 
When  the  deer  saw  us,  they  bolted  away,  plunging 
heavily  through  the  deep  snow,  slowly  and  with  great 
difficulty;  at  every  step  sinking  to  the  shoulder,  the  curs 
at  their  heels  as  near  as  they  could  venture.  They  all 
broke  in  different  directions ;  the  captain  pursued  one, 
I  another,  and  one  of  the  Indians  the  third;  at  first 
they  beat  us  in  speed ;  for  a  few  hundred  yards  mine  kept 
stoutly  on,  but  his  track  became  wider  and  more  irreg¬ 
ular,  and  large  drops  of  blood  on  the  pure,  fresh  snow 
showed  that  the  poor  animal  was  wounded  by  the  hard, 
icy  crust  of  the  old  fall.  We  were  pressing  down  the 
hill  through  very  thick  “  bush  ”  and  could  not  see  him, 
but  his  panting  and  crashing  through  the  underwood 
were  plainly  heard.  On,  on,  the  branches  smash  and 
rattle,  but  just  ahead  of  us  the  panting  is  louder  and 
closer,  the  track  red  with  blood ;  the  hungry  dogs  howl 
and  yell  almost  under  our  feet.  On,  on,  through  the 
deep  snow,  among  rugged  rocks  and  the  tall  pines,  we 
hasten,  breathless  and  eager.  Swinging  around  a  close 
thicket,  we  open  in  a  swampy  valley  with  a  few  patri¬ 
archal  trees  rising  from  it,  bare  of  branches  to  a  hundred 
feet  in  height ;  in  the  centre  stands  the  moose,  facing  us ; 
his  failing  knees  refuse  to  carry  him  any  further  through 
the  choking  drifts;  the  dogs  press  upon  him;  whenever 
his  proud  head  turns,  they  fly  away  yelling  with  terror, 
but  with  grinning  teeth  and  hungry  eyes  rush  at  him 
from  behind. 

He  was  a  noble  brute,  standing  at  least  seven  feet 
high ;  his  large,  dark  eye  was  fixed,  I  fancied  almost 
imploringly,  upon  me  as  I  approached.  He  made  no 
further  effort  to  escape,  or  resist ;  I  fired,  and  the  ball 
struck  him  in  the  chest.  The  wound  roused  him ;  in¬ 
furiated  by  the  pain,  he  raised  his  huge  bulk  out  of  the 


394 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


snow,  and  plunged  toward  me.  I  fired  the  second  bar¬ 
rel  ;  he  stopped,  and  staggered,  stretched  out  his  neck, 
and  blood  gushed  in  a  stream  from  his  mouth,  his  tongue 
protruded,  then  slowly,  as  if  lying  down  to  rest,  he  fell 
over  in  the  snow.  The  dogs  would  not  yet  touch  him ; 
nor  would  even  the  Indians ;  they  said  that  this  was  the 
most  dangerous  time  —  he  might  struggle  yet ;  so  we 
watched  cautiously  till  the  large,  dark  eye  grew  dim 
and  glazed,  and  the  sinewy  limbs  were  stiffened  out  in 
death ;  then  we  approached  and  stood  over  our  fallen 
foe. 

When  the  excitement  which  had  touched  the  savage 
chord  of  love  of  destruction,  to  be  found  in  every  na¬ 
ture,  was  over,  I  felt  ashamed,  guilty^,  self-condemned, 
like  a  murderer ;  the  snow  defiled  with  the  red  stain ; 
the  meek  eye,  a  few  moments  before  bright  with  healthy 
life,  now  a  mere  filmy  ball ;  the  vile  dogs,  that  had  not 
dared  to  touch  him  while  alive,  licked  up  the  stream  of 
blood,  and  fastened  on  his  heels.  I  was  thoroughly  dis¬ 
gusted  with  myself  and  the  tame  and  cruel  sport. 

The  Indians  knocked  down  a  decayed  tree,  rubbed 
up  some  dry  bark  in  their  hands,  applied  a  match  to  it, 
and  in  a  few  moments  made  a  splendid  fire  close  by  the 
dead  moose;  a  small  space  was  trampled  down,  the  sap¬ 
lings  laid  as  usual,  for  a  seat,  from  whence  I  inspected 
the  skinning  and  cutting  up  of  the  carcass ;  a  part  of 
the  proceeding  which  occupied  nearly  two  hours.  The 
hide  and  the  most  valuable  parts  were  packed  on  the 
toboggans,  and  the  remnant  of  the  noble  brute  was  left 
for  the  wolves;  then  we  returned  to  the  cabin. —  Hoche- 
laga. 


ARBURTON,  William,  an  English  critic  and 
theologian;  born  at  Newark,  December  24, 
4  1698;  died  at  Gloucester,  June  7,  1779.  He 

was  the  son  of  an  attorney  and  adopted  his  father’s 
profession,  but  forsook  it  for  the  church,  becoming 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


395 


rector  of  Brand  Broughton,  Lincolnshire,  and  rising 
by  preferments  to  the  office  of  bishop.  Among  his 
works  were  The  Alliance  Between  Church  and  State 
(1723),  a  defence  of  the  same;  The  Divine  Legation 
of  Moses  (1738-41),  a  ponderous  work  of  learning, 
assuming  and  defending  an  omission  of  immortality 
in  the  Old  Testament,  in  reply  to  deists;  Remarks  on 
RntherfortK s  Essay  on  Virtue  (1747)  ;  a  defence  of 
Pope’s  Essay  on  Man;  The  Principles  of  Natural  and 
Revealed  Religion;  and  a  View  of  Bolingbroke’s  Phi¬ 
losophy  (1755)  ;  a  review  of  Hume’s  Natural  History 
of  Religion,  and  an  edition  of  Shakespeare  with  com¬ 
ments.  Pope  bequeathed  to  him  the  copyright  of  his 
poems  and  other  works  valued  at  £4,000.  A  volume 
of  the  bishop’s  letters  was  published  anonymously  by 
Bishop  Hurd  (1809),  entitled  Letters  from  a  Pre¬ 
late. 

The  arrogance  and  dogmatism  of  Warburton  have 
become  almost  proverbial.  His  great  learning  was 
thrown  away  on  paradoxical  speculations,  and  none  of 
his  theological  or  controversial  works  have  in  the 
slightest  degree  benefited  Christianity.  His  notes  and 
commentaries  on  Shakespeare  and  Pope  are  devoid  of 
taste  and  genius,  but  often  display  curious  erudition 
and  ingenuity.  His  force  of  character  and  various 
learning,  always  ostentatiously  displayed,  gave  him  a 
high  name  and  authority  in  his  own  day ;  but  his  con¬ 
temporary  fame  has  failed  to  receive  the  impartial 
award  of  posterity.  Gibbon  speaks  of  the  Divine  Le¬ 
gation  as  a  brilliant  ruin.  The  metaphor  may  be  ap¬ 
plied  to  Warburton’s  literary  character  and  reputa¬ 
tion.  The  once  formidable  fabric  is  now  a  ruin  —  a 
ruin  not  venerable  from  cherished  associations,  but 
great,  unsightly,  and  incongruous. 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


3  96 


THE  GRECIAN  MYTHOLOGY - THE  VARIOUS  LIGHTS  IN 

WHICH  IT  WAS  REGARDED. 

Here  matters  rested ;  and  the  vulgar  faith  seems  to 
have  remained  a  long  time  undisturbed.  But  as  the  age 
grew  refined,  and  the  Greeks  became  inquisitive  and 
learned,  the  common  mythology  began  to  give  offence. 
The  speculative  and  more  delicate  were  shocked  at  the 
absurd  and  immoral  stories  of  their  gods,  and  scandalized 
to  find  such  things  make  an  authentic  part  of  their  story. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  thought  matter  of  wonder  how  such 
tales,  taken  up  in  a  barbarous  age,  came  not  to  sink  into 
oblivion  as  the  age  grew  more  knowing,  from  mere  ab¬ 
horrence  of  their  indecencies  and  shame  of  their  absurdi¬ 
ties.  Without  doubt,  this  had  been  their  fortune,  but  for 
an  unlucky  circumstance.  The  great  poets  of  Greece, 
who  had  most  contributed  to  refine  the  public  taste  and 
manners,  and  were  now  grown  into  a  kind  of  sacred 
authority,  had  sanctified  these  silly  legends  by  their  writ¬ 
ings,  which  time  had  now  consigned  to  immortality. 

Vulgar  paganism,  therefore,  in  such  an  age  as  this, 
lying  open  to  the  attacks  of  curious  and  inquisitive  men, 
would  not,  we  may  well  think,  be  long  at  rest.  It  is 
true,  free-thinking  then  lay  under  great  difficulties  and 
discouragements.  To  insult  the  religion  of  one’s  country, 
which  is  now  the  mark  of  learned  distinction,  was  brand¬ 
ed  in  the  ancient  world  with  public  infamy.  Yet  free¬ 
thinkers  there  were,  who,  as  is  their  wont,  together  with 
the  public  worship  of  their  country,  threw  off  all  rever¬ 
ence,  for  religion  in  general.  Amongst  these  were  Euhe- 
merus,  the  Messenian,  and,  by  what  we  can  learn,  the 
most  distinguished  of  this  tribe.  This  man,  in  mere 
wantonness  of  heart,  began  his  attacks  on  religion  by 
divulging  the  secret  of  the  mysteries.  But  as  it  was 
capital  to  do  this  directly  and  professedly,  he  contrived 
to  cover  his  perfidy  and  malice  by  the  intervention  of  a 
kind  of  Utopian  romance.  He  pretended  £  that  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  city,  which  he  came  to  in  his  travels,  he  found  this 
grand  secret,  that  the  gods  were  dead  men  deified,  pre¬ 
served  in  their  sacred  writings,  and  confirmed  by  monu- 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


mental  records  inscribed  to  the  gods  themselves,  who 
were  there  said  to  be  interred.’  So  far  was  not  amiss ; 
but  then,  in  the  genuine  spirit  of  his  class,  who  never 
cultivate  a  truth  but  in  order  to  graft  a  lie  upon  it,  he 
pretended  ‘  that  dead  mortals  were  the  first  gods,  and 
that  an  imaginary  divinity  in  these  early  heroes  and 
conquerors  created  the  idea  of  a  superior  power,  and 
introduced  the  practice  of  religious  worship  amongst 
men.’  Our  freethinker  is  true  to  his  cause,  and  endeav¬ 
ours  to  verify  the  fundamental  principle  of  his  sect,  that 
fear  first  made  gods,  even  in  that  very  instance  where 
the  contrary  passion  seems  to  have  been  at  its  height, 
the  time  when  men  made  gods  of  their  deceased  bene¬ 
factors.  A  little  matter  of  address  hides  the  shame  of  so 
perverse  a  piece  of  malice.  He  represents  those  foun¬ 
ders  of  society  and  fathers  of  their  country  under  the 
idea  of  destructive  conquerors,  who,  by  mere  force  and 
fear,  had  brought  men  into  subjection  and  slavery.  On 
this  account  it  was  that  indignant  antiquity  concurred  in 
giving  Euhemerus  the  proper  name  of  atheist,  which, 
however,  he  would  hardly  have  escaped,  though  he  had 
done  no  more  than  divulge  the  secret  of  the  mysteries, 
and  not  poisoned  his  discovery  with  this  impious  and 
foreign  addition,  so  contrary  to  the  true  spirit  of  that 
secret. 

This  detection  had  been  long  dreaded  by  the  orthodox 
protectors  of  pagan  worship ;  and  they  were  provided  of 
a  temporary  defence  in  their  intricate  and  properly  per¬ 
plexed  system  of  symbolic  adoration.  But  this  would  do 
only  to  stop  a  breach  for  the  present,  till  a  better  could 
be  provided,  and  was  too  weak  to  stand  alone  against  so 
violent  an  attack.  The  philosophers,  therefore,  now  took 
up  the  defence  of  paganism  where  the  priests  had  left  it, 
and  to  the  others’  symbols  added  their  own  allegories, 
for  a  second  cover  to  the  absurdities  of  the  ancient  myth¬ 
ology  ;  for  all  the  genuine  sects  of  philosophy,  as  we  have 
observed,  were  steady  patriots,  legislation  making  one 
essential  part  of  their  philosophy;  and  to  legislate  with¬ 
out  the  foundation  of  a  national  religion  was,  in  their 
opinion,  building  castles  in  the  air.  So  that  we  are  not 
to  wonder  they  took  the  alarm,  and  opposed  these  insult- 


398 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


ers  of  public  worship  with  all  their  vigour.  But  as  they 
never  lost  sight  of  their  proper  character,  they  so  con¬ 
trived  that  the  defence  of  the  national  religion  should 
terminate  in  a  recommendation  of  their  philosophic  spec¬ 
ulations.  Hence,  their  support  of  the  public  worship, 
and  their  evasion  of  Euhemerus’s  charge,  turned  upon 
this  proposition,  “  That  the  whole  ancient  mythology  was 
no  other  than  the  vehicle  of  physical,  moral,  and  divine 
knowledge.’  And  to  this  it  is  that  the  learned  Eusebius 
refers,  where  he  says :  ‘  That  a  new  race  of  men  refined 

their  old  gross  theology,  and  gave  it  an  honester  look, 
and  brought  it  nearer  to  the  truth  of  things.’ 

However,  this  proved  a  troublesome  work,  and  after 
all,  ineffectual  for  the  security  of  men’s  private  morals, 
which  the  example  of  the  licentious  story  according  to 
the  letter  would  not  fail  to  influence,  how  well  soever 
the  allegoric  interpretation  was  calculated  to  cover  the 
public  honour  of  religion ;  so  that  the  more  ethical  of  the 
philosophers  grew  peevish  with  what  gave  them  so  much 
trouble,  and  answered  so  little  to  the  interior  of  religious 
practice.  This  made  them  break  out,  from  time  to  time, 
into  hasty  resentments  against  their  capital  poets;  un¬ 
suitable,  one  would  think,  to  the  dignity  of  the  authors 
of  such  noble  recondite  truths  as  they  would  persuade  us 
to  believe  were  treasured  up  in  their  writings.  Hence  it 
was  that  Plato  banished  Homer  from  his  republic,  and 
that  Pythagoras,  in  one  of  his  extramundane  adventures, 
saw  both  Homer  and  Plesiod  doing  penance  in  hell,  and 
hung  up  there  for  examples,  to  be  bleached  and  purified 
from  the  grossness  and  pollution  of  their  ideas. 

The  first  of  these  allegories,  as  we  learn  from  Laertius, 
was  Anaxagoras,  who,  with  his  friend  Metrodorus,  turned 
Homer’s  mythology  into  a  system  of  ethics.  Next  came 
Hereclides  Ponticus,  and  of  the  same  fables  made  as  good 
a  system  of  physics.  And  last  of  all,  when  the  necessity 
became  more  pressing,  Proclus  undertook  to  shew  that 
all  Homer’s  fables  were  no  other  than  physical,  ethical 
and  moral  allegories. —  The  Divine  Legation. 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


399 


IS  LUXURY  A  PUBLIC  BENEFIT? 

To  the  lasting  opprobrium  of  our  age  and  country, 
we  have  seen  a  writer  publicly  maintain,  in  a  book  so 
entitled,  that  private  vices  were  public  benefits.  .  .  . 

In  his  proof  of  it,  he  all  along  explains  it  by  vice  only 
in  a  certain  measure,  and  to  a  certain  degree.  .  .  . 
The  author,  descending  to  the  enumeration  of  his  proofs, 
appears  plainly  to  have  seen  that  vice  in  general  was 
only  accidentally  productive  of  good :  and  therefore 
avoids  entering  into  an  examination  of  particulars ;  but 
selects,  out  of  his  favorite  tribe,  luxury,  to  support  his 
execrable  paradox;  and  on  this  alone  rests  his  cause. 
By  the  assistance  of  this  ambiguous  term,  he  keeps 
something  like  an  argument  on  foot,  even  after  he  hath 
left  all  the  rest  of  his  city-crew  to  shift  for  themselves. 

First,  in  order  to  perplex  and  obscure  our  idea  of  lux¬ 
ury,  he  hath  labored,  in  a  previous  dissertation,  on  the 
origin  of  moral  virtue,  to  destroy  those  very  principles, 
by  whose  assistance  we  are  only  able  to  clear  up  and 
ascertain  that  idea :  where  he  decries  and  ridicules  the 
essential  difference  of  things,  the  eternal  notions  of 
right  and  wrong;  and  makes  virtue,  which  common 
moralists  deduce  from  thence,  the  offspring  of  craft  and 
pride. 

Nothing  now  being  left  to  fix  the  idea  of  luxury  but 
the  positive  precepts  of  Christianity,  and  he  having  stript 
these  of  their  only  true  and  infallible  interpreter,  the 
principles  of  natural  religion,  it  was  easy  for  him  to 
make  those  precepts  speak  in  favor  of  any  absurdities 
that  would  serve  his  purpose,  and  as  easy  to  find  such 
absurdities  supported  by  the  superstition  and  fanaticism 
of  some  or  other  of  those  many  sects  and  parties  of 
Christianity,  who,  despising  the  principles  of  the  religion 
of  Nature  as  the  weak  and  beggarly  elements,  soon  came 
to  regard  the  natural  appetites  as  the  graceless  furniture 
of  the  old  man,  with  his  affections  and  lusts. 

Having  got  Christianity  at  this  advantage,  he  gives 
us  for  Gospel  that  meagre  phantom  begot  by  the  hy¬ 
pocrisy  of  monks  on  the  misanthropy  of  ascetics ;  which 


400 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON 


cries  out,  An  abuse !  whenever  the  gifts  of  Providence 
are  used  further  than  for  the  bare  support  of  nature. 
So  that  by  this  rule  everything  becomes  luxury  which  is 
more  than  necessary.  An  idea  of  luxury  exactly  fitted 
to  our  author’s  hypothesis :  for  if  no  state  can  be  rich 
and  powerful  while  its  members  seek  only  a  bare  sub¬ 
sistence,  and,  if  what  is  more  than  a  bare  subsistence  be 
luxury,  and  luxury  be  vice,  the  consequence,  we  see, 
comes  in  pat  —  private  vices  are  public  benefits.  Here 
you  have  the  sole  issue  of  all  this  tumor  of  words.  .  .  . 

But  the  Gospel  is  a  very  different  thing  from  what 
bigots  and  fanatics  are  wont  to  represent  it.  It  enjoins 
and  forbids  nothing  in  moral  practice  but  what  natural 
religion  had  before  enjoined  and  forbid.  Neither  could 
it,  because  one  of  God’s  revelations,  whether  ordinary 
or  extraordinary,  cannot  contradict  another;  and  because 
God  gave  us  the  first,  to  judge  the  others  by  it.  .  .  . 

The  religion  of  nature,  then,  being  restored,  and  made 
the  rule  to  explain  and  interpret  the  occasional  precepts 
of  Christianity;  what  is  luxury  by  natural  religion,  that, 
and  that  only,  must  be  luxury  by  revealed.  So  a  true 
and  precise  definition  of  it,  which  this  writer  (triumph¬ 
ing  in  the  obscurity  which,  by  these  arts,  he  hath  thrown 
over  the  idea)  thinks  it  impossible  to  give,  so  as  not  to 
suit  with  his  hypothesis,  is  easily  settled.  Luxury  is 
the  using  of  the  gifts  of  Providence  to  the  injury  of  the 
user,  either  in  person  or  his  fortune ;  or  to  the  in¬ 
jury  of  any  other,  toward  whom  the  user  stands  in  any 
relation,  which  obliges  him  to  aid  and  assist. 

Now  it  is  evident,  even  from  the  instances  this  writer 
brings  of  the  public  advantages  of  consumption,  which 
he  indiscriminately,  and  therefore  falsely,  calls  luxury, 
that  the  utmost  consumption  may  be  made,  and  so  all 
the  ends  of  a  rich  and  powerful  Society  served,  and 
without  injury  to  the  user,  or  anyone,  to  whom  he  stands 
related ;  consequently  without  luxury,  and  without  vice. 
When  the  consumption  is  attended  with  such  injury,  then 
it  becomes  luxury,  then  it  becomes  vice.  But  then  let  us 
take  notice  that  this  vice,  like  all  others,  is  so  far  from 
being  advantageous  to  Society,  that  it  is  the  most  cer- 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


40  T 

tain  ruin  of  it.  It  was  this  luxury  which  destroyed 
Rome. —  The  Divine  Legation  of  Moses,  Vol  L,  Book  I 


ARD,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  an  Ameri- 
novelist  and  poet ;  born  at  Andover, 


can 


Mass.,  August  13,  1844.  Her  grandfather, 
Moses  Stuart,  and  her  father,  Austin  Phelps,  were 
'professors  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover, 
and  both  contributed  largely  to  religious  literature. 
Her  mother  wrote  several  popular  books,  among  which 
is  Sunny  Side  (1851).  The  daughter  commenced 
writing  at  an  early  age.  Her  works  —  some  of 
which  had  already  appeared  in  periodicals,  are : 
Ellen’s  Idol  (1864)  ;  Up  Hill  (1865)  ;  Mercy  Gliddon’s 
Work  (1866)  ;  Tiny  Stories  (4  vols.,  1866-69)  1  Gipsy 
Stories  (4  vols.,  1866-69)  1  The  Gates  Ajar  (1868)  ; 
Men,  Women  and  Ghosts  (1869)  ;  The  Silent  Partner 
(1870);  Trotty’s  Wedding  Tour  (1873);  The  Good- 
Aim  Series  (1874)  ;  Poetic  Studies  (1875)  ;  The  Story 
of  Avis  (1877)  ;  My  Cousin  and  I  (1879)  ;  Old  Maid’s 
Paradise  (1879)  ;  Sealed  Orders  (1879)  ;  Friends,  a 
Duet  (1881)  ;  Beyond  the  Gates  (1883)  ;  Songs  of  the 
Silent  World  (1884);  Dr.  Zay  (1884);  Burglars  in 
Paradise  (1886)  ;  The  Gates  Between  (1887)  ;  Jack  the 
Fisherman  (1887);  The  Struggle  for  Immortality 
(1889)  ;  Memoirs  of  Austin  Phelps,  her  father  (1891)  ; 
Donald  Marcy  (1893)  ;  Hedged  In;  The  Supply  at 
Saint  Agatha’s;  A  Singular  Life  (1896)  ;  The  Life  of 
Christ  (1897);  The  Gates  Ajar  (1903);  and  Trixy 
(1904).  In  1888  Miss  Phelps  married  Mr.  Herbert  D. 
Ward.  They  have  published  two  novels  in  collabora- 
Vol.  XXIII.— 26 


402  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 

tion,  The  Master  of  the  Magicians  and  Come  Forth 
( 1890). 


THE  “  HANDS  ”  AT  HAYLE  AND  KELSO’S. 

If  you  are  one  of  the  “  hands  ”  in  the  Hayle  and 
Kelso  Mills,  you  go  to  your  work,  as  is  well  known, 
from  the  hour  of  half-past  six  to  seven,  according  to 
the  turn  of  the  season.  Time  has  been  when  you  went 
at  half-past  four.  The  Senior  forgot  this  the  other  day 
in  a  little  talk  which  he  had  with  his  Silent  Partner 
very  naturally,  the  time  having  been  so  long  past.  But 
the  time  has  been,  is  now  yet,  in  places.  Mr.  Hayle  can 
tell  you  of  mills  he  saw  in  New  Hampshire,  where  they 
ring  them  up,  winter  and  summer,  in  and  out,  at  half-past 
four  in  the  morning.  Oh,  no,  never  let  out  before  six 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Mr.  Hayle  disapproves  of  this; 
Mr.  Hayle  thinks  it  not  human ;  Mr.  Hayle  is  confident 
that  you  would  find  no  mission  Sunday-school  connected 
with  that  concern. 

If  you  are  one  of  the  “  hands,”  you  are  so  dully  used 
to  this  classification  that  you  were  never  known  to  cul¬ 
tivate  an  objection  to  it,  are  scarcely  found  to  notice 
either  its  use  or  disuse :  being  neither  head  nor  heart, 
what  else  remains?  Scarcely  conscious  from  bell  to  bell, 
from  sleep  to  sleep,  from  day  to  dark,  of  either  head  or 
heart,  there  seems  a  singular  appropriateness  of  the 
word  with  which  you  are  dimly  struck.  Hayle  and 
Kelso  label  you.  There  you  are.  The  world  thinks, 
aspires,  creates,  enjoys.  There  you  are.  You  are  the 
fingers  of  the  world.  You  take  your  patient  place.  The 
world  may  have  read  of  you;  but  only  that  it  may  think, 
aspire,  create,  enjoy.  It  needs  your  patience  as  well 
as  your  place.  You  take  both,  and  the  world  is  used  to 
both ;  and  so,  having  put  the  label  on  for  safety’s  sake, 
lest  you  should  be  mistaken  for  a  thinking,  aspiring, 
creating,  enjoying  compound,  and  so  someone  be  poisoned, 
shoves  you  into  your  place  upon  its  shelf,  and  shuts  its 
cupboard  door  upon  you. 

If  you  are  one  of  the  “  hands,”  then,  in  Hayle  and 
Kelso’s,  you  have  a  breakfast  of  bread  and  molasses 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD  40 3 

probably ;  you  are  apt  to  eat  it  while  you  dress.  Some¬ 
body  is  heating  the  kettle,  but  you  cannot  wait  for  it. 
Somebody  tells  you  that  you  have  forgotten  your  shawl ; 
you  throw  it  over  one  shoulder  and  step  out,  before  it  is 
fastened,  into  the  sudden  raw  air.  You  left  lamplight 
indoors,  you  find  moonlight  without.  The  night  seems 
to  have  overslept  itself;  you  have  a  fancy  for  trying  to 
wake  it  —  would  like  to  shout  at  it  or  cry  through  it,  but 
feel  very  cold,  and  leave  that  for  the  bells  to  do  by  and 
by.  You  and  the  bells  are  the  only  waking  things  in 
life.  The  great  brain  of  the  world  is  in  serene  repose ; 
the  great  heart  of  the  world  lies  warm  to  the  core  with 
dreams ;  the  great  hands  of  the  world,  the  patient,  the 
perplexed  —  one  almost  fancies  at  times,  just  for  fancy 
—  seeing  you  here  by  the  morning  moon,  the  dangerous 
hands  alone  are  stirring  in  the  dark. 

You  hang  up  your  shawl  and  your  crinoline,  and 
understand,  as  you  go  shivering  by  gaslight  to  your 
looms,  that  you  are  chilled  to  the  heart,  and  that  you 
were  careless  about  your  shawl,  but  do  not  consider 
carefulness  worth  your  while,  by  nature  or  by  habit;  a 
little  less  shawl  means  a  few  less  winters  in  which  to 
require  shawling.  You  are  a  godless  little  creature,  but 
you  cherish  a  stolid  leaning,  in  those  morning  moons, 
toward  making  an  experiment  of  death  and  a  wadded 
coffin. 

By  the  time  the  gas  is  out,  you  cease  perhaps  —  though 
you  cannot  depend  upon  that  —  to  shiver,  and  incline 
less  and  less  to  the  wadded  coffin,  and  more  to  a  chat 
with  your  neighbor  in  the  alley.  Your  neighbor  is  of 
either  sex  and  any  description,  as  the  case  may  be.  In 
any  event  —  warming  a  little  with  the  warming  day  — 
you  incline  more  and  more  to  chat. 

If  you  chance  to  be  a  cotton-weaver,  you  are  presently 
warm  enough.  It  is  quite  warm  enough  in  the  weaving- 
room.  The  engines  respire  into  the  weaving-room;  with 
every  throb  of  their  huge  lungs  you  swallow  their  breath. 
The  weaving-room  stifles  with  steam.  The  window-sills 
are  guttered  to  prevent  the  condensed  steam  from  run¬ 
ning  in  streams  along  the  floor;  sometimes  they  over¬ 
flow,  and  the  water  stands  under  the  looms.  The  walls 


404  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


perspire  profusely;  on  a  damp  day  drops  will  fall  from 
the  roof.  The  windows  of  the  weaving-room  are  closed. 
They  must  be  closed;  a  stir  in  the  air  will  break  your 
threads.  There  is  no  air  to  stir ;  you  inhale  for  a  sub¬ 
stitute  a  motionless,  hot  moisture.  If  you  chance  to  be 
a  cotton-weaver  it  is  not  in  March  that  you  think  most 
about  your  coffin. 

Being  a  “  hand  ”  in  Hayle  and  Kelso’s,  you  are  used  to 
eating  cold  luncheon  in  the  cold  at  noon ;  or  you  walk, 
for  the  sake  of  a  cup  of  soup  or  coffee,  half  a  mile, 
three-quarters,  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  back.  You  are 
allowed  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  do  this.  You  go 
and  come  upon  the  jog-trot. 

You  grow  moody,  being  a  “  hand  ”  at  Hayle  and  Kel¬ 
so’s,  with  the  declining  day,  are  inclined  to  quarrel  or 
to  confidence  with  your  neighbor  in  the  alley;  find  the 
overseer  out  of  temper,  and  the  cotton  full  of  flaws ; 
find  pains  in  your  feet,  your  back,  your  eyes,  your  arms ; 
feel  damp  and  sticky  lint  in  your  hair,  our  neck,  your 
ears,  your  throat,  your  lungs;  discover  a  monotony  in 
the  process  of  breathing  hot  moisture.  You  lower  your 
window  at  your  risk ;  are  bidden  by  somebody  whose 
threads  you  have  broken  to  put  it  up ;  and  put  it  up. 
You  are  conscious  that  your  head  swims,  your  eyeballs 
burn,  your  breath  quickens.  You  yield  your  preference 
for  a  wadded  coffin,  and  consider  whether  the  river 
would  not  be  the  comfortable  thing.  You  cough  a  little, 
cough  a  great  deal ;  lose  your  balance  in  a  coughing-fit, 
snap  a  thread,  and  take  to  swearing  roundly. 

From  swearing  you  take  to  singing;  both,  perhaps, 
are  equal  relief  —  active  and  diverting.  There  is  some¬ 
thing  curious  about  that  singing  of  yours.  The  time, 
the  place,  the  singers,  characterize  it  sharply :  the  wan¬ 
ing  light,  the  rival  din,  the  girls  with  tired  faces.  You 
start  some  little  thing  with  a  refrain,  and  a  ring  to  it. 
A  hymn,  it  is  not  unlikely;  something  of  a  River,  and  of 
Waiting,  and  of  Toil  and  Rest,  or  Sleep,  or  Crowns,  or 
Harps,  or  Home,  or  Green  Fields,  or  Flowers,  or  Sor¬ 
row,  or  Repose,  or  a  dozen  things ;  but  always  it  will  be 
noticed,  of  simple,  spotless  things,  such  as  will  surprise 
the  listener  who  caught  you  at  your  oath  of  five  minutes 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


405 


past.  You  have  other  songs,  neither  simple  nor  spot¬ 
less,  it  may  be ;  but  you  never  sing  them  at  your  work 
when  the  waning  day  is  crawling  out  from  spots  be¬ 
neath  your  loom,  and  the  girls  lift  up  their  tired  faces 
to  catch  and  keep  the  chorus  in  the  rival  din. 

You  like  to  watch  the  contest  between  the  chorus 
and  the  din ;  to  see  —  you  seem  almost  to  see  —  the 
struggle  of  the  melody  from  loom  to  loom,  from  dark¬ 
ening  wall  to  darkening  wall,  from  lifted  face  to  lifted 
face ;  to  see  —  for  you  are  very  sure  you  see  —  the  ma¬ 
chinery  fall  into  a  fit  of  rage;  that  is  a  sight!  You 
would  never  guess,  unless  you  had  watched  it  just  as 
many  times  you  have,  how  that  machinery  will  rage; 
how  it  throws  its  arms  about ;  what  fists  it  can  clench ; 
how  it  shakes  at  the  elbows  and  knees ;  what  teeth  it 
knows  how  to  gnash ;  how  it  writhes  and  roars ;  how 
it  clutches  at  the  leaky  gas-lights ;  and  how  it  bends 
its  impudent  black  head ;  always,  at  last  without  fail, 
and  your  song  sweeps  triumphant  over  it !  With  this 
you  are  very  much  pleased,  though  only  a  “  hand  ”  in 
Hayle  and  Kelso’s. 

You  are  singing  when  the  bell  strikes,  and  singing 
still  when  you  clatter  down  the  stairs.  Something  of 
the  simple  spotlessness  of  the  little  song  is  on  your  face 
when  you  dip  into  the  wind  and  dusk.  Perhaps  you 
have  only  pinned  your  shawl  or  pulled  your  hat  over 
your  face,  or  knocked  against  a  stranger  on  the  walk. 
But  it  passes ;  it  passes,  and  is  gone.  It  is  cold  and  you 
tremble,  direct  from  the  morbid  heat  in  which  you  have 
stood  all  day;  or  you  have  been  cold  all  day,  and  it  is 
colder  and  you  shrink.  Or  you  are  from  the  weaving- 
room,  and  the  wind  strikes  you  faint ;  or  you  stop  to 
cough,  and  the  girls  go  on  without  you.  The  town  is 
lighted,  and  the  people  are  out  in  their  best  clothes. 
You  pull  your  dingy  veil  about  your  eyes.  You  are 
weak  and  heart-sick  all  at  once.  You  don’t  care  to  go 
home  to  supper.  The  pretty  song  creeps  back  for  the 
engine  in  the  deserted  dark  to  crunch.  You  are  a  miser¬ 
able  little  factory-girl  with  a  dirty  face.  —  The  Silent 
Partner. 


4o6  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


AFTERWARD. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.  The  loving  meet  — 

A  group  unbroken  —  smitten  who  knows  how  ? 

One  sitteth  silent  only,  in  his  usual  seat; 

We  gave  him  once  that  freedom.  Why  not  now? 

Perhaps  he  is  too  weary,  and  needs  rest; 

He  needed  it  too  often,  nor  could  we 
Bestow.  God  gave  it,  knowing  how  to  do  so  best. 
Which  of  us  would  disturb  him?  Let  him  be. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.  If  he  will  take 
The  mood  to  listen  mutely,  be  it  done. 

By  his  least  mood  we  crossed,  for  which  the  heart  must 
ache, 

Plead  not  nor  question  !  Let  him  have  this  one. 

Death  is  a  mood  of  life.  It  is  no  whim 

By  which  life’s  Giver  mocks  a  broken  heart. 

Death  is  life’s  reticence.  Still  audible  to  Him, 

The  hushed  voice,  happy,  speaketh  on,  apart. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.  To  love  is  still 
To  have.  Nearer  to  memory  than  to  eye, 

And  dearer  yet  to  anguish  than  to  comfort,  will 
We  hold  him  by  our  love,  that  shall  not  die. 

For  while  it  doth  not,  thus  he  cannot.  Try  ! 

Who  can  put  out  the  motion  or  the  smile  ? 

The  old  ways  of  being  noble  all  with  him  laid  by  ? 
Because  we  love,  he  is.  Then  trust  awhile. 

—  Songs  of  the  Silent  World. 

NEW  NEIGHBORS. 

Within  the  window’s  scant  recess, 

Behind  a  pink  geranium  flower, 

She  sits  and  sews,  and  sews  and  sits, 

From  patient  hour  to  patient  hour. 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


407 


As  woman-like  as  marble  is, 

Or  as  a  lovely  death  might  be  — 

A  marble  death  condemned  to  make 
A  feint  at  life  perpetually. 

Wondering,  I  watch  to  pity  her; 

Wandering,  I  go  my  restless  ways ; 

Content,  I  think  the  untamed  thoughts 
Of  free  and  solitary  days. 

Until  the  mournful  dusk  begins 
To  drop  upon  the  quiet  street, 

Until,  upon  the  pavement  far, 

There  falls  the  sound  of  coming  feet: 

A  happy,  hastening,  ardent  sound, 

Tender  as  kisses  on  the  air  — 

Quick,  as  if  touched  by  unseen  lips 
Blushes  the  little  statue  there ; 

And  woman-like  as  young  life  is, 

And  woman-like  as  joy  may  be  ; 

Tender  with  color,  lithe  with  love, 

She  starts,  transfigured  gloriously. 

Superb  in  one  transcendent  glance  — 

Her  eyes,  I  see,  are  burning  black  — 

My  little  neighbor,  smiling,  turns, 

And  throws  my  unasked  pity  back. 

I  wonder,  is  it  worth  the  while, 

To  sit  and  sew  from  hour  to  hour  — 

To  sit  and  sew  with  eyes  of  black, 

Behind  a  pink  geranium  flower? 

—  Songs  of  the  Silent  World. 


408 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD 


ARD,  Mary  Augusta  Arnold  (“  Mrs.  Hum¬ 


phry  Ward”),  an  English  novelist;  born 
at  Elobart,  Tasmania,  June  n,  1851.  Her 


father,  Thomas  —  a  younger  brother  of  Matthew  Ar¬ 
nold — was  a  government  officer  in  Tasmania.  He 
became  afterward  a  professor  in  the  Roman  Catho¬ 
lic  University  of  Dublin,  settled  at  Oxford,  edited 
books,  and  wrote  a  manual  of  English  Literature. 
The  daughter  married  Thomas  Humphry  Ward,  au¬ 
thor  of  English  Poets ;  Men  of  the  Reign;  The  Reign 
of  Queen  Victoria ,  etc.  Mrs.  Ward  is  the  author  of 
Milly  and  Ollie,  or  a  Holiday  Among  the  Mountains 
(1880)  ;  Miss  Bretherton  (1884)  ;  a  translation  of 
AmieTs  Journal  (1885)  ;  a  critical  estimate  of  Mrs. 
Browning;  Robert  Elsmere,  a  novel  (1888),  by  which 
she  is  best  known;  David  Grieve  (1892)  ;  Marcella 
(1894)  ;  Sir  George  Tressady  (1895)  ;  The  Story  of 
Bessie  Costrell  (1895)  ;  Helbeck  of  Bannisdale 
(1898)  ;  Eleanor  (1900)  ;  Lady  Rose’s  Daughter 
(1902)  ;  The  Marriage  of  William  Ashe  (1905)  ;  and 
Fenzmcke’s  Career  (1906). 

Of  Robert  Elsmere ,  William  Sharp  says :  “  All  that 
the  critic  of  fiction  commonly  looks  to  —  incident,  evo¬ 
lution  of  plot,  artistic  sequence  of  events,  and  so 
forth  —  seems  secondary  when  compared  with  the 
startlingly  vivid  presentment  of  a  human  soul  in  the 
storm  and  stress  incidental  to  the  renunciation  of  past 
spiritual  domination  and  the  acceptance  of  new  hopes 
and  aspirations.  .  .  .  Merely  as  a  tale  of  contem¬ 

porary  English  life,  a  fictitious  record  of  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  loves  and  antagonisms,  fortune  and  mis¬ 
fortune,  of  men  and  women  more  or  less  like  individ- 


MRS.  HUMPHREY  WARD 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD 


409 


uals  whom  most  of  us  know,  it  is  keenly  interest¬ 
ing.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Ward’s  literary  method  is  that  of 

George  Eliot ;  indeed,  there  is  a  curious  affinity  in 
Robert  Elsmere  to  Adam  Bede  —  though  there  is  per¬ 
haps  not  an  incident,  possibly  no  play  of  character, 
or  acute  side-light  or  vivifying  suggestion  that  could 
be  found  in  both,  while  the  plot  and  general  scheme 
are  entirely  dissimilar.” 


OXFORD. 

The  weather  was  all  that  the  heart  of  man  could  de¬ 
sire,  and  the  party  met  on  Paddington  platform  with 
every  prospect  of  another  successful  day.  Forbes  turned 
up  punctual  to  the  moment,  and  radiant  under  the  com¬ 
bined  influence  of  the  sunshine  and  of  Miss  Bretherton’s 
presence;  Wallace  had  made  all  the  arrangements  per¬ 
fectly,  and  the  six  friends  found  themselves  presently 
journeying  along  to  Oxford.  ...  At  last  the 
“  dreaming  spires  ”  of  Oxford  rose  from  the  green,  river- 
threaded  plain,  and  they  were  at  their  journey’s  end. 
A  few  more  minutes  saw  them  alighting  at  the  gate  of 
the  new  Balliol,  where  stood  Herbert  Sartoris  looking 
out  for  them.  He  was  a  young  don  with  a  classical 
edition  on  hand  which  kept  him  working  up  after  term, 
within  reach  of  the  libraries,  and  he  led  the  way  to  some 
pleasant  rooms  overlooking  the  inner  quadrangle  of 
Balliol,  showing  in  his  well-bred  look  and  manner  an 
abundant  consciousness  of  the  enormous  good  fortune 
which  had  sent  him  Isabel  Bretherton  for  a  guest.  For 
at  that  time  it  was  almost  as  difficult  to  obtain  the 
presence  of  Miss  Bretherton  at  any  social  festivity  as  it 
was  to  obtain  that  of  royalty.  Her  Sundays  were  the 
objects  of  conspiracies  for  weeks  beforehand  on  the 
part  of  those  persons  in  London  society  who  were  least 
accustomed  to  have  their  invitations  refused,  and  to  have 
and  to  hold  the  famous  beauty  for  more  than  an  hour 
in  his  own  rooms,  and  then  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of 
spending  five  or  six  long  hours  on  the  river  with  her, 
were  delights  which,  as  the  happy  young  man  felt,  would 


4io 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD 


render  him  the  object  of  envy  to  all  —  at  least  of  his 
fellow-dons  below  forty. 

In  streamed  the  party,  filling  up  the  book-lined  rooms 
and  starting  the  two  old  scouts  in  attendance  into  un¬ 
wonted  rapidity  of  action.  Miss  Bretherton  wandered 
around,  surveyed  the  familiar  Oxford  luncheon-table, 
groaning  under  the  time-honored  summer  fare,  the  books, 
the  engravings,  and  the  sunny,  irregular  quadrangle  out¬ 
side,  with  its  rich  adornings  of  green,  and  threw  herself 
down  at  last  on  to  the  low  window-seat  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 

“  How  quiet  you  are  !  how  peaceful ;  how  delightful  it 
must  be  to  live  here  !  It  seems  as  if  one  were  in  another 
world  from  London.  Tell  me  what  that  building  is  over 
there;  it’s  too  new,  it  ought  to  be  old  and  gray  like  the 
colleges  we  saw  coming  up  here.  Is  everybody  gone 
away — ‘gone  down,’  you  say?  I  should  like  to  see  all 
the  learned  people  walking  about  for  once.” 

“  I  could  show  you  a  good  many  if  there  were  time,” 
said  young  Sartoris,  hardly  knowing,  however,  what  he 
was  saying,  so  lost  was  he  in  admiration  of  that  mar¬ 
vellous  changing  face.  “  The  vacation  is  the  time  they 
show  themselves ;  it’s  like  owls  coming  out  at  night. 
You  see,  Miss  Bretherton,  we  don’t  keep  many  of  them; 
they  are  in  the  way  in  term-time.  But  in  vacation  they 
have  the  colleges  and  the  parks  and  the  Bodleian  to  them¬ 
selves  and  their  umbrellas,  under  the  most  favorable 
conditions.” 

“  Oh,  yes,”  said  Miss  Bretherton,  with  a  little  scorn, 
“  people  always  make  fun  of  what  they  are  proud  of. 
But  I  mean  to  believe  that  you  are  all  learned,  and  that 
everybody  here  works  himself  to  death,  and  that  Oxford 
is  quite,  quite  perfect !  ” 

“  Did  you  hear  what  Miss  Bretherton  was  saying,  Mrs. 
Stuart?”  said  Forbes,  when  they  were  seated  at  lunch¬ 
eon.  “Oxford  is  perfect,  she  declares  already;  I  don’t 
think  I  quite  like  it;  it’s  too  hot  to  last.” 

“Am  I  such  a  changeable  creature,  then?”  said  Miss 
Bretherton,  smiling  at  him.  “  Do  you  generally  find  my 
enthusiasms  cool  down  ?  ” 

“  You  are  as  constant'  as  you  are  kind,”  said  Forbes, 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD  41 1 

bowing  to  her.  .  .  .  “  Oh !  the  good  times  I’ve  had 

up  here  —  much  better  than  he  ever  had  ” —  nodding 
across  at  Kendal,  who  was  listening.  “  He  was  too 
properly  behaved  to  enjoy  himself;  he  got  all  the  right 
things,  all  the  proper  first-classes  and  prizes,  poor  fellow  ! 
But,  as  for  me,  I  used  to  scribble  over  my  notebooks  all 
lecture-time,  and  amuse  myself  the  rest  of  the  day.  And 
then,  you  see,  I  was  up  twenty  years  earlier  than  he  was, 
and  the  world  was  not  as  virtuous  then  as  it  is  now,  by 
a  long  way.” 

Kendal  was  interrupting,  when  Forbes,  who  was  in 
one  of  his  maddest  moods,  turned  around  upon  his  chair 
to  watch  a  figure  passing  along  the  quadrangle  in  front 
of  the  bay-window. 

“  I  say,  Sartoris,  isn’t  that  Camden,  the  tutor  who  was 
turned  out  of  Magdalen  a  year  or  two  ago  for  that 
atheistical  book  of  his,  and  whom  you  took  in,  as  you  do 
all  the  disreputables?  Ah,  I  knew  it! 

“  ‘  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs 

Something  wicked  this  way  comes.’ 

That’s  not  mine,  my  dear  Miss  Bretherton ;  it’s  Shake¬ 
speare’s  first,  Charles  Lamb’s  afterward.  But  look  at 
him  well  —  he’s  a  heretic,  a  real,  genuine  heretic. 
Twenty  years  ago  it  would  have  been  a  thrilling  sight; 
but  now,  alas  !  it’s  so  common  that  it’s  not  the  victim  but 
the  persecutors  who  are  the  curiosity.” 

“  I  don’t  know  that,”  said  young  Sartoris.  “  We  liber¬ 
als  are  by  no  means  the  cocks  of  the  walk  that  we  were 
a  few  years  ago.  You  see,  now  we  have  got  nothing  to 
pull  against,  as  it  were.  So  long  as  we  had  two  or  three 
good  grievances,  we  could  keep  the  party  together,  and 
attract  all  the  young  men.  We  were  Israel  going  up 
against  the  Philistines,  who  had  us  in  their  grip.  But 
now,  things  are  changed ;  we’ve  got  our  way  all  round, 
and  it’s  the  Church  party  who  have  the  grievances  and 
the  cry.  It  is  we  who  are  the  Philistines,  and  the 
oppressors  in  our  turn,  and,  of  course,  the  young  men 
as  they  grow  up  are  going  into  the  opposition.” 

“  And  a  very  good  thing,  too !  ”  said  Forbes.  “  It’s 


412 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD 


the  only  thing  that  prevents  Oxford  becoming  as  dull  as 
the  rest  of  the  world.  All  your  picturesqueness,  so  to 
speak,  has  been  struck  out  of  the  struggle  between  the 
two  forces.  The  Church  force  is  the  one  that  has  given 
you  all  your  buildings  and  your  beauty,  while  as  for  you 
liberals,  who  will  know  such  a  lot  of  things  that  you’re 
none  the  happier  for  knowing  —  well,  I  suppose  you 
keep  the  place  habitable  for  the  plain  man  who  doesn’t 
want  to  be  bullied.  But  it’s  a  very  good  thing  the  other 
side  are  strong  enough  to  keep  you  in  order.”  .  .  . 

Then  they  strolled  into  the  quiet  cathedral,  delighted 
themselves  with  its  irregular,  bizarre  beauty,  its  unex¬ 
pected  turns  and  corners,  which  gave  it  a  capricious, 
fanciful  air,  for  all  the  solidity  and  business-like  strength 
of  its  Norman  framework*;  and  as  they  rambled  out 
again,  Forbes  made  them  pause  over  a  window  in  the 
northern  aisle  —  a  window  by  some  Flemish  artist  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  who  seems  to  have  embodied  in  it  at 
once  all  his  knowledge  and  all  his  dreams.  In  front 
sat  Jonah  under  his  golden-tinted  gourd  —  an  ill-tem¬ 
pered  Flemish  peasant  —  while  behind  him  the  indented 
roofs  of  the  Flemish  town  climbed  the  whole  height  of 
the  background.  It  was  probably  the  artist’s  native  town ; 
some  roofs  among  those  carefully  outlined  gables  shel¬ 
tered  his  household  Lares.  But  the  hill  on  which  the 
town  stood,  and  the  mountainous  background  and  the 
purple  sea,  were  the  hills  and  the  sea  not  of  Belgium, 
but  of  a  dream-country  —  of  Italy,  perhaps,  the  mediaeval 
artist’s  paradise. 

“  Flappy  man  !  ”  said  Forbes,  turning  to  Miss  Brether- 
ton ;  “  look,  he  put  it  together  four  centuries  ago  —  all 
he  knew  and  all  he  dreamt  of.  And  there  it  is  to  this 
day,  and  beyond  the  spirit  of  that  window  there  is  no 
getting.  For  all  our  work,  if  we  do  it  honestly,  is  a 
compound  of  what  we  know  and  what  we  dream.”  .  .  . 

They  passed  out  into  the  cool  and  darkness  of  the 
cloisters,  and  through  the  new  buildings,  and  soon  they 
were  in  the  Broad  Walk,  trees  as  old  as  the  Common¬ 
wealth  bending  overhead,  and  in  front  the  dazzling  green 
of  the  June  meadows,  the  shining  river  in  the  distance, 


MARY  AUGUSTA  ARNOLD  WARD 


4i3 


and  the  sweep  of  cloud-flecked  blue  arching  in  the  whole. 
—  Miss  Bretherton. 


HAWTHORNE. 

How  many  instances  might  be  given  of  the  romantic 
temper  in  Hawthorne! — the  wonderful  passage  in  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables ,  where  Phoebe,  before  her  eyes 
perceived  him,  is  conscious  in  the  shadowed  room  of 
Clifford’s  return;  the  grim  vengeance  of  Roger  Chilling- 
worth  ;  the  appearance  in  the  Catacombs  of  Miriam’s 
mysterious  persecutor;  that  swift  murder  on  the  Tar- 
peian  rock;  Hilda’s  confession  in  St.  Peter’s;  and  a  hun¬ 
dred  more  —  not  to  speak  of  such  things  as  Roger 
Malvin’s  Burial  or  The  Ambitious  Guest  or  Rap p acini’ s 
Daughter,  each  of  them  a  romantic  masterpiece  which 
may  match  with  any  other  of  a  similar  kind  from  the 
first  or  second  generation  of  the  European  Romantics. 
Surprise,  invention,  mystery,  a  wide-ranging  command, 
now  of  awe,  horror,  and  magnificence,  and  now  a  grace, 
half-toned  and  gentle  as  a  Spring  day,  combined  with 
that  story  teller’s  resource  which  is  the  gift  of  the  gods 
alone  —  these  things  we  shall  find  in  Hawthorne,  just 
as  we  find  them  —  some  or  all  of  them  —  in  Hugo  or 
Musset,  in  Gautier  or  Merimee. 

But  what  a  marvel  of  genius  that  it  should  be  so ! 
For  while  Victor  Hugo’s  childhood  and  youth  were 
passed  first  in  Naples,  then  in  Spain,  and  finally  in  the 
Paris  of  the  Restoration,  amid  all  that  might  fitly  nourish 
the  great  poet  who  came  to  his  own  in  1830,  Hawthorne’s 
youth  and  early  manhood,  before  the  Brook  Farm  expe¬ 
rience,  were  passed,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  in  a  country 
where  there  were  “  no  shadows,  no  antiquity,  no  mystery, 
no  picturesque  and  gloomy  wrong,  nor  anything  but  a 
commonplace  prosperity  in  broad  and  simple  daylight,” 
in  a  town  and  a  society  which  had  and  could  have  noth¬ 
ing —  or  almost  nothing  —  of  those  special  incitements 
and  provocations  which,  in  the  case  of  his  European 
contemporaries,  were  always  present.  As  to  the  books 
which  may  have  influenced  him,  they  do  not  seem  to  be 
easy  to  trace.  But  I  remember  a  mention  of  Burger’s 


4M 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


Lenore  in  the  Note  Books,  which  links  him  with  Scott’s 
beginnings ;  and  a  reference  to  a  translation  he  was  mak- 
ing  of  a  tale  by  Tieck  gives  me  particular  pleasure,  be¬ 
cause  it  connects  him  with  our  great  English  Romantic, 
Emily  Bronte,  who  was  reading  Tieck  about  the  same 
time.  Naturally,  in  the  thirties  and  forties,  a  man  of 
fine  literary  capacity,  commanding  French  and  German, 
and  associated  with  Emerson,  Longfellow,  and  Margaret 
Fuller,  must  have  read  the  European  books  of  the  mo¬ 
ment,  and  must  have  been  stirred  by  the  European  ideas 
and  controversies  then  affecting  his  craft.  And  indeed 
the  love  of  the  past,  the  love  of  nature,  curiosity,  free¬ 
dom,  truth,  daring  —  all  these  Romantic  traits  are  Haw¬ 
thorne’s. —  The  Cornhill  Magazine. 


ARD,  Nathaniel,  an  English  clergyman  and 
satirist;  born  at  Haverhill,  Suffolk,  in  1578; 
died  at  Shenfield,  Essex,  in  1652.  He  was 
the  son  of  John  Ward,  a  famous  Puritan  minister,  was 
graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1603,  studied  law,  which 
he  practiced  in  England,  and  traveled  extensively. 
He  entered  the  ministry,  and  on  his  return  to  England 
held  a  pastorate  in  Sussex.  In  1631  he  was  tried  for 
nonconformity  by  Archbishop  Laud,  and,  though  he 
escaped  excommunication,  was  deprived  of  his  charge. 
In  1634  he  sailed  for  New  England,  and  became  col¬ 
league  to  the  Rev.  Thomas  Parker  at  Ipswich.  He  re¬ 
signed  in  1636,  but  resided  at  Ipswich  and  compiled 
for  the  colony  of  Massachusetts  The  Body  of  Liberties, 
which  was  adopted  by  the  General  Court  in  1641,  and 
which  was  the  first  code  of  laws  established  in  New 
England.  In  1646  he  returned  to  England,  and  be¬ 
came  pastor  of  a  church  in  Shenfield,  which  post  he 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


415 


held  until  his  death.  While  in  America  he  published 
The  Simple  Cobbler  of  Agawam  In  America,  Willing 
to  Help  Mend  His  Native  Country ,  Lamentably  Tat¬ 
tered  Both  in  the  Upper-Leather  and  the  Sole.  His 
Simple  Cobbler’s  Boy  with  His  Lap-full  of  Caveats, 
was  written  in  America  and  published  under  the  pen- 
name  of  Theodore  de  la  Guard  in  1646.  Two  Ameri¬ 
can  editions  were  issued,  one  in  Boston  in  1718,  the 
other,  edited  by  David  Pulsifer,  in  1843. 

TO  THE  NEEDLESSE  TAYLOR. 

From  his  working  ( im — )  posture. 

Let  him  beware  that  his  dispositions  be  not  more  crosse 
than  his  legges  or  sheeres. 

If  he  will  be  a  Church  member,  he  must  remember  to 
away  with  his  crosse  -f-  members.  For  Churches  must 
have  no  Crosses,  nor  kewcaws.  Againe, 

He  must  not  leap  from  the  Shop-board  into  the  Pulpit 
to  make  a  sermon  without  tayle  or  head,  nor  with  a 
Taylor’s  head. 


From  the  patch. 

Let  him  take  heed  he  make  not  a  Sermon  like  a  Beg¬ 
gar’s  cloak  pacht  up  of  a  thousand  ragges,  most  dou- 
terty,  nor,  like  his  own  fundamentall  Cushion,  boch’t  up 
of  innumerable  shreds,  and  every  one  of  a  several  colour 
(not  a  couple  of  parishioners  among  them)  and  stuft 
with  nothing  but  bran,  chaffe,  and  the  like  lumber,  scarce 
fit  for  the  streete. 

Let  him  not  for  a  Needle  mistake  a  Pen,  and  write 
guil-lets,  making  a  Goose  of  himself. 

Take  heede  of  the  hot  Iron  there. 

Let  him  not  insteed  of  pressing  cloth  oppresse  truth, 
nor  put  errors  into  the  Presse. 

The  Hand  and  Sheeres  do  speak  this  cutting  language. 

Keep  to  thy  Calling  Mr.  and  cut  thy  coat  according 


416 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


to  thy  cloth.  Neglect  not  to  use  thy  brown  thread,  lest 
thy  Family  want  browne  bread,  and  suffer  a  sharp  stitch. 

The  Breeches  with  wide  nostrils  do  Promulgate  this 

Canon-law. 

That  the  Taylor  (when  he  preaches)  be  sure  to  ex¬ 
claim  against  the  new  Fashions  (a  disease  incident  unto 
Florses  and  Asses)  that  so  he  live  not  by  others  pride, 
while  he  exhorts  to  humility.  The  Tub  of  shreds  utters 
Ferking  advice  That  he  do  not  filch  Cloths,  Silkes,  Vel¬ 
vets,  Sattins,  etc.,  in  private  nor  pilfer  Time  from  others 
in  publike,  nor  openly  rob  Ministers  of  their  employment, 
nor  secretly  tell  any  secret  lye. 

From  the  out  (side)  facings  counsaile  that  he  do  not 
cloak-over  any  tattered  suit  of  hypocrital  knavery  with 
a  fair-facing  of  an  outside  profession. 

Well  to  the  Point. 

That  he  consider  that  as  a  Needle,  the  thread  or  silk,, 
so  a  Schismatick,  drawes  a  long  traine  of  folly-followers 
after  him,  when  he  deales  in  points  by  the  dozen. 

From  the  Seame-rip pings. 

That  Hereticall  opinions,  unlesse  they  be  ript  open, 
are  of  as  dangerous  consequence  as  an  hempen  collar, 
etc.,  a  man  were  better  be  hanged,  than  to  have  his  im¬ 
mortal  soul  stifled  therewith. —  The  Simple  Cobbler’s  Boy. 

MINISTERS. 

A  profound  Heretick  is  like  a  huge  Tub  full  of  sirrup, 
his  followers  are  like  Wasps  and  Gadflies  that  buz  and 
frisk  about  him,  and  sting  at  them  that  would  keep  them 
off :  but  at  last  they  are  so  entangled  in  the  slimy  pap, 
that  it  is  a  thousand  unto  one  if  ever  they  returne  safe, 
but  there  they  dve  and  make  the  sirrup  of  their  Tenets 
to  stink  intolerably. 

But  a  Godly  and  learned  Minister  is  like  a  Master- 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


417 


Bee,  the  Word  and  the  World  are  his  Garden  and  Field, 
the  works  of  God  and  his  Divine  truths  are  his  Flowers ; 
Peace  of  Conscience,  Joy  in  the  Holy-Ghost,  the  con¬ 
solations  of  Christ  are  his  Honey;  his  Heart  is  an  Hive, 
his  Head  is  an  Honey-Comb;  reproof  is  his  sting  where¬ 
with  he  spurs  on,  or  spumes  away  the  sluggish  Drone, 
Ignavum  fucos  Pecus,  etc.  The  Bee  was  born  a  Con¬ 
fectioner,  and  though  he  make  but  one  sort  of  confection, 
yet  it  easily  transcends  all  the  Art  of  man : 

For, 

The  Bees’  work  is  pure,  unmixt,  Virgin  honey;  man’s 
knick-knacks  are  jumbled  and  blended.  I  apply  it  God’s 
Word  is  pure,  man’s  invention  is  mixt. 

Then  if  in  Manna  you  will  trade, 

You  must  boyle  no  more  Marmolade. 

Lay  by  your  Diet-bread  and  slicing-knife, 

If  you  intend  to  break  the  Bread  of  Life. 

—  The  Simple  Cobbler's  Boy. 

ON  THE  FRIVOLITIES  OF  FASHION. 

Should  I  not  keep  promise  in  speaking  a  little  to 
women’s  fashions,  they  would  take  it  unkindly.  I  was 
loath  to  pester  better  matter  with  such  stuff ;  I  rather 
thought  it  meet  to  let  them  stand  by  themselves,  like  the 
■Qnce  Genus  in  the  grammar,  being  deficients,  or  redun- 
dants,  not  to  be  brought  under  any  rule :  I  shall  therefore 
make  bold  for  this  once,  to  borrow  a  little  of  their  loose- 
tongued  Liberty,  and  misspend  a  word  or  two  upon  their 
long-waisted,  but  short-skirted  Patience :  a  little  use  of 
my  stirrup  will  do  no  harm. 

Ridentem  die  ere  vemm,  quid  prohibet ? 

Gray  Gravity  itself  can  well  beteem, 

That  language  be  adapted  to  the  theme. 

He  that  to  parrots  speaks  must  parrotise: 

He  that  instructs  a  fool  may  act  th’  unwise. 

It  is  known  more  than  enough  that  I  am  neither  nig¬ 
gard,  nor  cynic,  to  the  due  bravery  of  the  true  gentry. 

Vol.  XXIII.— 27 


4i8 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


I  honor  the  woman  that  can  honor  herself  with  her  attire ; 
a  good  text  always  deserves  a  fair  margin;  I  am  not 
much  offended  if  I  see  a  trim  far  trimmer  than  she  wears 
it.  In  a  word,  whatever  Christianity  or  civility  will 
allow,  I  can  afford  with  London  measure :  but  when  I 
hear  a  nugiperous  gentledame  inquire  what  dress  the 
Queen  is  in  this  week:  what  the  nudiustertian  fashion 
of  the  Court,  with  egg  to  be  in  it  in  all  haste,  whatever 
it  be,  I  look  at  her  as  the  very  gizzard  of  a  trifle,  the 
product  of  a  quarter  of  a  cipher,  the  epitome  of  nothing, 
fitter  to  be  kicked,  if  she  were  of  a  kickable  substance, 
than  either  honored  or  humored. 

To  speak  moderately,  I  truly  confess  it  is  beyond  the 
ken  of  my  understanding  to  conceive  how  these  women 
should  have  any  true  grace,  or  valuable  virtue,  that  have 
so  little  wit,  as  to  disfigure  themselves  with  such  exotic 
garbs,  as  not  only  dismantles  their  native  lovely  lustre, 
but  transclouts  them  into  gantbar-geese,  ill-shapen,  shell¬ 
fish,  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  or  at  least  into  French 
flurts  of  the  pastery,  which  a  proper  English  woman 
should  scorn  with  her  heels.  It  is  no  marvel  they  wear 
drailes  on  the  hinder  part  of  their  heads,  having  nothing, 
as  it  seems,  in  the  fore-part,  but  a  few  squirrels’  brains 
to  help  them  frisk  from  one  ill-favored  fashion  to  another. 

These  whimnT  Crown’d  shees,  these  fashion-fancying 
wits, 

Are  empty  thin  brained  shells,  and  fiddling  Kits, 

the  very  troublers  and  impoverishes  of  mankind.  I  can 
hardly  forbear  to  commend  to  the  world  a  saying  of  a 
Lady  living  some  time  with  the  Queen  of  Bohemia;  I 
know  not  where  she  found  it,  but  it  is  a  pity  it  should 
be  lost. 

The  world  is  full  of  care,  much  like  unto  a  bubble, 
Women  and  care,  and  care  and  women,  and  women  and 
care  and  trouble. 

The  verses  are  even  enough  for  such  odd  pegma.  I 
can  make  myself  sick  at  any  time,  with  comparing  the 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


419 


dazzling  splendor  wherewith  our  gentlewomen  were  em¬ 
bellished  in  some  former  habits,  with  the  gutfounered 
goosedcm,  wherewith  they  are  now  surcingled  and  de¬ 
bauched.  We  have  about  five  or  six  of  them  in  our 
colony;  if  I  see  any  of  them  accidentally,  I  cannot 
cleanse  my  fancy  of  them  for  a  month  after.  I  have 
been  a  solitary  widower  almost  twelve  years,  purposed 
lately  to  make  a  step  over  to  my  native  country  for  a 
ycke-fellow :  but  when  I  consider  how  women  there  have 
tripe-wifed  themselves  with  their  cladments,  I  have  no 
heart  for  the  voyage,  lest  their  nauseous  shapes  and  the 
sea  should  work  too  sorely  upon  my  stomach.  I  speak 
sadly ;  methinks  it  should  break  the  hearts  of  English 
men,  to  see  so  many  goodly  English  women  imprisoned 
in  French  cages,  peering  out  of  their  hood  holes  for 
some  of  mercy  to  help  them  with  a  little  wit,  and  nobody 
relieves  them. 

It  is  a  more  common  than  convenient  saying,  that  nine 
tailors  make  a  man :  it  were  well  if  nineteen  could  make 
a  woman  to  her  mind.  If  tailors  were  men  indeed  well 
furnished  but  with  mere  moral  principles,  they  would 
disdain  to  be  led  about  like  apes  by  such  mimic  marmo¬ 
sets.  It  is  a  most  unworthy  thing  for  men  that  have 
bones  in  them  to  spend  their  lives  in  making  fiddle-cases 
for  futilous  women’s  fancies;  which  are  the  very  pettitoes 
of  infirmity,  the  giblets  of  perquisquilian  toys.  I  am 
so  charitable  to  think  that  most  of  that  mystery  would 
work  the  cheerfuller  while  they  live,  if  they  might  be  well 
discharged  of  the  tiring  slavery  of  misfiring  women.  It' 
is  no  little  labor  to  be  continually  putting  up  English 
women  into  outlandish  casks ;  who  if  they  be  not  shifted 
anew,  once  in  a  few  months,  grow  too  sour  for  their 
husbands.  What  this  trade  will  answer  for  themselves 
when  God  shall  take  measure  of  tailors’  consciences  is 
beyond  my  skill  to  imagine. 

There  was  a  time  when 

The  joining  of  the  Red  Rose  with  the  White, 

Did  set  our  State  into  a  Damask  plight. 

But  now  our  roses  are  turned  to  flore  de  lices,  our 


420 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


carnations  to  tulips,  our  gillyflowers  to  daisies,  our  city 
dames  to  an  indenominable  quaemalry  of  overturcased 
things.  He  that  makes  coats  for  the  moon  had  need  take 
measures  every  noon :  and  he  that  makes  for  women,  as 
often,  to  keep  them  from  lunacy. 

I  have  often  heard  divers  ladies  vent  loud  feminine 
complaints  of  the  wearisome  varieties  and  chargeable 
changes  of  fashions :  I  marvel  themselves  prefer  not  a 
Bill  of  redress.  I  would  Essex  ladies  would  lead  the 
chore,  for  the  honor  of  their  country  and  persons ;  or 
rather  the  thrice  honorable  ladies  of  the  court,  whom  it 
best  beseems :  who  may  well  presume  of  a  Le  Roy  le 
veult  from  our  sober  king,  a  Les  Seigneurs  ont  assentus 
from  our  prudent  peers,  and  the  like  assentus ,  from  our 
considerate,  I  dare  not  say  wife-worn  Commons;  who  I 
believe  had  much  rather  pass  one  such  bill  than  pay  so 
many  tailors’  bills  as  they  are  forced  to  do. 

Most  dear  and  unparalleled  Ladies,  be  pleased  to  at¬ 
tempt  it :  as  you  have  the  precedency  of  the  women  of 
the  world  for  beauty  and  feature,  so  assume  the  honor 
to  give,  and  not  take  law  from  any,  in  matter  of  attire. 
If  ye  can  transact  so  fair  a  motion  among  yourselves 
unanimously,  I  dare  say  they  that  most  renite  will  least 
repent.  What  greater  honor  can  your  Honors  desire 
than  to  build  a  promontory  precedent  to  all  foreign  ladies, 
to  deserve  so  eminently  at  the  hands  of  all  the  English 
gentry  present  and  to  come :  and  to  confute  the  opinion 
of  all  the  wise  men  in  the  world ;  who  never  thought  it 
possible  ,  for  women  to  do  so  good  a  wrork. 

If  any  man  think  I  have  spoken  rather  merrily  than 
seriously,  he  is  much  mistaken,  I  have  written  what  I 
write  with  all  the  indignation  I  can,  and  no  more  than  I 
ought.  I  confess  I  veered  my  tongue  to  this  kind  of 
language  de  indnstria,  though  unwillingly,  supposing  those 
I  speak  to  are  uncapable  of  grave  and  rational  arguments. 

I  desire  all  ladies  and  gentlewomen  to  understand  that 
all  this  while  I  intend  not  such  as,  through  necessary 
modesty  to  avoid  morose  singularity,  follow  fashions 
slowly,  a  flight  shot  or  two  off,  showing  by  their  modera¬ 
tion  that  they  rather  draw  countermont  with  their  hearts 
than  put  on  by  their  examples. 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


421 


I  point  my  pen  only  against  the  light-heeled  beagles 
that  lead  the  chase  so  fast  that  they  run  all  civility  out 
of  breath,  against  these  ape-headed  pullets  which  invent 
antique  fool-fangles,  merely  for  fashion  and  novelty  sake. 

In  a  word,  if  I  begin  once  to  declaim  against  fashions, 
let  men  and  women  look  well  about  them,  there  is  some¬ 
what  in  the  business;  I  confess  to  the  world,  I  never 
had  grace  enough  to  be  strict  in  that  kind ;  and  of  late 
years,  I  have  found  syrup  of  pride  very  wholesome  in 
a  due  dose,  which  makes  me  keep  such  store  of  that  drug 
by  me,  that  if  anybody  comes  to  me  for  a  question-full  or 
two  about  fashions,  they  never  complain  of  me  for  giving 
them  hard  measure,  or  under  weight. 

But  I  address  myself  to  those  who  can  both  hear  and 
mend  all  if  they  please:  I  seriously  fear,  if  the  Pious 
Parliament  do  not  find  time  to  state  fashions,  as  ancient 
Parliaments  have  done  in  a  part,  God  will  hardly  find  a 
time  to  state  religion  or  peace.  They  are  the  sur- 
quedryes  of  pride,  the  wantonness  of  idleness,  provoking 
sins,  the  certain  prodromies  of  assured  judgment. —  Zeph. 
i.  7,  8. 

It  is  beyond  all  account  how  many  gentlemen’s  and 
citizens’  estates  are  deplumed  by  their  fether-headed 
wives,  what  useful  supplies  the  pannage  of  England 
would  afford  other  countries,  what  rich  returns  to  itself, 
if  it  were  not  sliced  out  into  male  and  female  fripperies ; 
and  what  a  multitude  of  misemployed  hands  might  be 
better  improved  in  some  more  manly  manufactures  for 
the  public  weal.  It  is  not  easily  credible,  what  may  be 
said  of  the  preterpluralities  of  tailors  in  London :  I  have 
heard  an  honest  man  say  that  not  long  since  there  were 
numbered  between  Temple-bar  and  Charing-Cross  eight 
thousand  of  that  trade;  let  it  be  conjectured  by  that  pro¬ 
portion  how  many  there  are  in  and  about  London,  and  in 
all  England  they  will  appear  to  be  very  numerous.  If 
the  Parliament  would  please  to  mend  women,  which  their 
husbands  dare  not  do,  there  need  not  so  many  men  to 
make  and  mend  as  there  are.  I  hope  the  present  doleful 
estate  of  the  realm  will  persuade  more  strongly  to  some 
considerate  course  herein  than  I  now  can. 

Knew  I  how  to  bring  it  in,  I  would  speak  a  word  to 


422 


NATHANIEL  WARD 


long  hair,  whereof  I  will  say  no  more  hut  this :  if  God 
proves  not  such  a  barber  to  it  as  he  threatens,  unless  it 
be  amended,  Isai.  vii.  20,  before  the  peace  of  the  State 
and  Church  be  well  settled,  then  let  my  prophecy  be 
scorned,  as  a  sound  mind  scorns  the  riot  of  that  sin, 
and  more  it  needs  not.  If  those  who  are  termed  rattle- 
heads  and  impuritans  would  take  up  a  resolution  to  begin 
in  moderation  of  hair  to  the  just  reproach  of  those 
that  are  called  Puritans  and  Roundheads,  I  would  honor 
their  manliness  as  much  as  the  others’  godliness,  so  long 
as  I  knew  what  man  or  honor  meant:  if  neither  can  find 
a  barber’s  shop,  let  them  turn  in,  to  Psalm  lxviii :  21, 
Jer.  vii.  29,  1  Cor.  xi.  14.  If  it'  be  thought  no  wisdom 

in  men  to  distinguish  themselves  in  the  field  by  the 

scissors,  let  it  be  thought  no  injustice  in  God  not  to 
distinguish  them  by  the  sword.  I  had  rather  God  should 
know  me  by  my  sobriety  than  mine  enemy  not  know  me 
by  my  vanity.  He  is  ill  kept  that  is  kept  by  his  own 
sin.  A  short  promise  is  a  far  safer  god  than  a  long 

lock :  it  is  an  ill  distinction  which  God  is  loath  to  look 

at. —  The  Simple  Cobbler  of  Agawam. 

SIX  HOBNAILS. 

I  pray  let  me  drive  in  half  a  dozen  plain  honest  country 
hobnails,  such  as  the  martyrs  were  wont  to  wear,  to 
make  my  work  hold  the  surer,  and  I  have  done : 

There  lives  cannot  be  good, 

There  faith  cannot  be  sure 
Where  truth  cannot  be  quiet, 

Nor  ordinances  pure. 

No  King  can  king  it  right, 

Nor  rightly  sway  his  rod, 

Who  truly  loves  not  Christ, 

And  truly  fears  not  God. 

He  cannot  rule  a  land, 

As  lands  should  ruled  been, 

That  lets  himself  be  rul’d 
By  a  ruling  Roman  Queen. 


' 


EUGENE  FITCH  WARE. 


EUGENE  FITCH  WARE 


423 


No  earthly  man  can  be 
True  subject  to  this  State, 

Who  makes  the  Pope  his  Christ, 

A11  heretic  his  mate. 

There  Peace  will  go  to  war, 

And  Silence  make  a  noise, 

Where  upper  things  will  not 
With  nether  equipoise. 

The  upper  world  shall  rule, 

While  stars  will  run  their  race : 

The  nether  World  obey, 

While  people  keep  their  place. 

THE  CLENCH. 

If  any  of  these  come  out 
So  long’s  the  world  do  last 

Then  credit  not  a  word 
Of  what  is  said  and  past. 

—  The  Simple  Cobbler  of  Agawam. 


ARE,  Eugene  Fitch  (“  Ironquill  ”),  an 
American  poet;  born  in  Connecticut  in  1841. 
He  removed  to  the  West  as  a  youth  and  later 
engaged  in  journalism  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska. 
From  1902  to  1904  he  was  United  States  Pension 
Commissioner.  He  has  published  Rhymes  of  Iron- 
quill  and  has  contributed  many  popular  poems  to  mag¬ 
azines  and  newspapers. 

THE  WASHERWOMAN’S  FRIEND. 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 


424 


EUGENE  FITCH  WARE 


In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope, 
Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone  — 

“  With  a  Saviour  for  a  friend, 

He  will  keep  me  to  the  end.” 

Sometimes  happening  along, 

I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 

And  I  often  used  to  smile 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile; 

But  I  never  said  a  word 
In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 

As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee, 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 

As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor; 

But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long. 

“  With  a  Saviour  for  a  friend, 

He  will  keep  me  to  the  end.” 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 

Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be; 

But  her  spirits  always  rose, 

Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 

And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone 
Of  a  Saviour  and  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds ; 

Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools  — 


EUGENE  FITCH  WARE 


425 


She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs; 
And  I  would  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that  washerwoman’s  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 

Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring; 

For  the  woman  has  a  friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

UPSIDE  DOWN. 

Once  a  Kansas  zephyr  strayed 
Where  a  brass-eyed  bull  pup  played, 
And  that  foolish  canine  bayed, 

At  that  zephyr  in  a  gay, 

Semi-idiotic  way. 

Then  that  zephyr  in  about 

Half  a  jiffy  took  that  pup 
Tipped  him  over  wrong  side  up ! 
Then  it  turned  him  wrong  side  out, 

And  it  calmly  journeyed  thence, 

With  a  barn  and  string  of  fence. 

MORAL. 

When  communities  turn  loose, 

Social  forces  that  produce, 

The  disorders  of  a  gale ; 

Act  upon  a  well-known  law, 

Face  the  breeze,  but  close  your  jaw  — 
It’s  a  rule  that  will  not  fail, 

If  you  bay  it  in  a  gay, 

Self-sufficient  sort  of  way, 

It  will  land  you,  without  doubt, 

Upside  down  and  wrong  side  out. 


426 


WILLIAM  WARE 


(  ARE,  William,  an  American  novelist;  born 
at  Hingham,  Mass.,  August  3,  1797;  died 
at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  February  19,  1852. 
He  was  the  grandson  of  Henry  Ware,  prominent  in 
the  Unitarian  controversy,  and  was  one  of  a  family  of 
authors.  Graduating  from  Harvard  in  1816,  and  the 
Divinity  School  in  1819,  he  was  pastor  in  Northboro, 
Waltham,  and  West  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and  from  1821 
to  1836  in  New  York  City.  His  Letters  from  Pal¬ 
myra  (1837)  were  published  in  1868,  as  Zenobia,  or 
the  Fall  of  Palmyra.  Probus  (1838),  was  afterward 
entitled  Aurelian.  These,  with  Julian,  or  Scenes  in 
Judea  (1841),  gained  him  considerable  reputation  as 
an  historical  novelist.  His  other  works  are  American 
Unitarian  Biography  (1850)  ;  Sketches  of  European 
Capitals  (1851);  Lectures  on  the  Works  and  Genius 
of  Washington  Allston  (1852)  ;  Memoir  of  Nathaniel 
Bacon  in  Sparks's  American  Biography  (1841). 
From  1839  to  1844  he  edited  the  Christian  Examiner. 


PALMYRA. 

It  was  several  miles  before  we  reached  the  city,  that 
we  suddenly  found  ourselves  —  landing  as  it  were  from 
a  sea  upon  an  island  or  continent  —  in  a  rich  or  thickly 
peopled  country.  The  roads  indicated  an  approach  to 
a  great  capital,  in  the  increasing  numbers  of  those  who 
thronged  them,  meeting  and  passing  us,  overtaking  us, 
or  crossing  our  way.  Elephants,  camels,  and  the  drom¬ 
edary,  which  I  had  before  seen  only  in  the  amphithe¬ 
atres,  I  here  beheld  as  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  soil. 
Frequently  villas  of  the  rich  and  luxurious  Palmyrenes, 
to  which  they  retreat  from  the  greater  heats  of  the  city, 
now  threw  a  lovely  charm  over  the  scene.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  splendor  of  those  sumptuous  palaces.  Italy 


WILLIAM  WARE 


4  27 


itself  has  nothing  which  surpasses  them.  The  new  and 
brilliant  costumes  of  the  persons  whom  we  met,  together 
with  the  rich  housings  of  the  animals  they  rode,  served 
greatly  to  add  to  all  this  beauty.  I  was  still  entranced, 
as  it  were,  by  the  objects  around  me,  and  buried  in 
reflection ;  when  I  was  roused  by  the  shout  of  those 
who  led  the  caravan,  and  who  had  attained  the  summit 
of  a  little  rising  ground,  saying,  “  Palmyra  !  Palmyra  !  ” 
I  urged  forward  my  steed,  and  in  a  moment  the  most 
wonderful  prospect  I  ever  beheld  —  no,  I  cannot  except' 
even  Rome  —  burst  upon  my  sight.  Flanked  by  hills  of 
considerable  elevation  on  the  east,  the  city  filled  the 
whole  plain  below  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  both 
toward  the  north  and  toward  the  south.  This  immense 
plain  was  all  one  vast  and  boundless  city.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  larger  than  Rome.  Yet  I  knew  very  well 
that  it  could  not  be  —  that  it  was  not.  And  it  was  some 
time  before  I  understood  the  true  character  of  the  scene 
before  me,  so  as  to  separate  the  city  from  the  country, 
and  the  country,  from  the  city,  which  here  wonderfully 
interpenetrate  each  other  and  so  confound  and  deceive 
the  observer.  For  the  city  proper  is  so  studded  with 
groups  of  lofty  palm-trees,  shooting  up  among  its  tem¬ 
ples  and  palaces,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  plain  in  its 
immediate  vicinity  is  so  thickly  adorned  with  magnifi¬ 
cent  structures  of  the  purest  marble,  that  it  is  not  easy, 
nay,  it  is  impossible,  at  the  distance  at  which  I  contem¬ 
plated  the  whole,  to  distinguish  the  line  which  divided 
the  one  from  the  other.  It  was  all  city  and  all  country, 
all  country  and  all  city.  Those  which  lay  before  me  I 
was  ready  to  believe  were  the  Elysian  Fields.  I  im¬ 
agined  that  I  saw  under  my  feet  the  dwellings  of  purified 
men  and  of  gods.  Certainly  they  were  too  glorious  for 
the  mere  earth-born.  There  was  a  central  point,  how¬ 
ever,  which  chiefly  fixed  my  attention,  where  the  vast 
Temple  of  the  sun  stretched  upward  its  thousand  columns 
of  polished  marble  to  the  heavens,  in  its  matchless  beauty 
casting  into  the  shade  every  other  work  of  art  of  which 
the  world  can  boast.  I  have  stood  before  the  Parthenon, 
and  have  almost  worshipped  that  divine  achievement  of 
the  immortal  Phidias.  But  it  is  a  toy  by  the  side  of  this 


428 


WILLIAM  WARE 


bright  crown  of  the  Eastern  capital.  I  have  been  at 
Milan,  at  Ephesus,  at  Alexandria,  at  Antioch ;  but  in 
neither  of  these  renowned  cities  have  I  beheld  anything 
that  I  can  allow  to  approach  in  united  extent,  grandeur, 
and  most  consummate  beauty  this  almost  more  than 
work  of  man.  On  each  side  of  this,  the  central  point, 
there  rose  upward  slender  pyramids  —  pointed  obelisks  — 
domes  of  the  most  graceful  proportions,  columns,  arches, 
and  lofty  towers,  for  numbers  and  for  form,  beyond  my 
power  to  describe.  These  buildings,  as  well  as  the  walls 
of  the  city,  being  all  either  of  white  marble,  or  of  some 
stone  as  white,  and  being  everywhere  in  their  whole  ex¬ 
tent  interspersed,  as  I  have  already  said,  with  multitudes 
of  overshadowing  palm-trees,  perfectly  filled  and  satis¬ 
fied  my  sense  of  beauty,  and  made  me  feel,  for  the 
moment,  as  if  in  such  a  scene  I  should  love  to  dwell, 
and  there  end  my  days. 

ZENOBIA  THE  CAPTIVE. 

And  it  was  the  ninth  hour  before  the  alternate  shouts 
and  deep  silence  of  the  multitudes  announced  that  the 
conqueror  was  drawing  near  the  capitol.  As  the  first 
shout  arose,  I  turned  toward  the  quarter  whence  it 
came,  and  beheld,  not  Aurelian,  as  I  expected,  but  the 
Gallic  Emperor  Tetricus  —  yet  slave  of  his  army  and  of 
Victoria  —  accompanied  by  the  prince  his  son,  and  fol¬ 
lowed  by  other  illustrious  captives  from  Gaul.  All  eyes 
were  turned  with  pity  upon  him,  and  with  indignation 
too  that  Aurelian  should  thus  treat  a  Roman,  and  once 
a  Senator.  But  sympathy  for  him  was  instantly  lost 
in  a  stronger  feeling  of  the  same  kind  for  Zenobia,  who 
came  immediately  after.  You  can  imagine,  Fausta,  better 
than  I  can  describe  them,  my  sensations,  when  I  saw 
our  beloved  friend  —  her  whom  I  had  seen  treated  never 
otherwise  than  as  a  sovereign  Queen,  and  with  all  the 
imposing  pomp  of  the  Persian  ceremonial  —  now  on  foot, 
and  exposed  to  the  rude  gaze  of  the  Roman  populace  — 
toiling  beneath  the  rays  of  a  hot  sun,  and  the  weight  of 
jewels  such  as  both  for  richness  and  beauty,  were  never 
before  seen  in  Rome  —  and  of  chains  of  gold,  which, 


WILLIAM  WARE 


429 


first  passing  around  her  neck  and  arms,  were  then  borne 
up  by  attendant  slaves.  I  could  have  wept  to  see  her 
go  —  yes,  and  did.  My  impulse  was  to  break  through 
the  crowd  and  support  her  almost  fainting  form  —  but 
I  well  knew  that  my  life  would  answer  for  the  rashness 
on  the  spot.  I  could  only,  therefore,  like  the  rest,  wonder 
and  gaze.  And  never  did  she  seem  to  me,  not  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  own  court,  to  blaze  forth  with  such 
transcendent  beauty  —  yet  touched  with  grief.  Her  look 
was  not  that  of  dejection,  of  one  who  was  broken  and 
crushed  by  misfortune  —  there  was  no  blush  of  shame. 
It  was  rather  one  of  profound,  heart-breaking  melan¬ 
choly.  Her  full  eyes  looked  as  if  privacy  only  was 
wanted  for  them  to  overflow  with  floods  of  tears.  But 
they  fell  not.  Her  gaze  was  fixed  on  vacancy,  or  else 
cast  toward  the  ground.  She  seemed  like  one  unob¬ 
servant  of  all  around  her,  and  buried  in  thoughts  to  which 
all  else  were  strangers,  and  had  nothing  in  common  with. 
They  were  in  Palmyra,  and  with  her  slaughtered  multi¬ 
tudes.  Yet  though  she  wept  not,  others  did;  and  one 
could  see  all  along,  wherever  she  moved,  the  Roman  hard¬ 
ness  yielding  to  pity,  and  melting  down  before  the  all- 
subduing  presence  of  this  wonderful  woman.  The  most 
touching  phrases  of  compassion  fell  constantly  upon  my 
ear.  And  ever  and  anon  as  in  the  road  there  would 
happen  some  rough  or  damp  place,  the  kind  souls  would 
throw  down  upon  it  whatever  of  their  garments  they 
could  quickest  divest  themselves  of,  that  those  feet,  little 
used  to  such  encounters,  might  receive  no  harm.  And 
as  when  other  parts  of  the  procession  were  passing  by, 
shouts  of  triumph  and  vulgar  joy  frequently  arose  from 
the  motley  crowds,  yet  when  Zenobia  appeared  a  death¬ 
like  silence  prevailed,  or  it  was  interrupted  only  by  ex¬ 
clamations  of  admiration  or  pity,  or  of  indignation  at 
Aurelian  for  so  using  her.  But  this  happened  not  long. 
For  when  the  Emperor’s  pride  had  been  sufficiently 
gratified,  and  just  there  where  he  came  over  against 
the  steps  of  the  capitol,  he  himself,  crowned  as  he  was 
with  the  diadem  of  universal  empire,  descended  from 
bis  chariot,  and  unlocking  the  chains  of  gold  that  bound 
the  limbs  of  the  Queen,  led  and  placed  her  in  her  own 


43° 


WILLIAM  WARE 


chariot  —  that  chariot  in  which  she  had  fondly  hoped  her¬ 
self  to  enter  Rome  in  triumph  —  between  Julia  and  Livia. 
Upon  this  the  air  was  rent  with  the  grateful  acclama¬ 
tions  of  the  countless  multitudes.  The  Queen’s  coun- 
tenance  brightened  for  a  moment  as  if  with  the  ex¬ 
pressive  sentiment,  “  The  gods  bless  you !  ”  and  was 
then  buried  in  the  folds  of  her  robe.  And  when  after 
the  lapse  of  many  minutes  it  was  again  raised  and  turned 
toward  the  people,  everyone  might'  see  that  tears  burn¬ 
ing  hot  had  coursed  her  cheeks,  and  relieved  a  heart 
which  else  might  well  have  burst  with  its  restrained 
emotion. —  Zenobia. 


ZENOBIA  SAVED. 

A  sound  as  of  a  distant  tumult,  and  the  uproar  of  a 
multitude,  caught  the  ears  of  all  within  the  tent. 

“What  mean  these  tumultuous  cries?”  inquired  Aure- 
lian  of  his  attending  guard.  “  They  increase  and  ap¬ 
proach.” 

“  It  may  be  but  the  soldiers  at  their  game  with  An- 
tiochus,”  replied  Probus. 

But  it  was  not  so.  At  the  moment  a  Centurion, 
breathless,  and  with  his  head  bare,  rushed  madly  into 
the  tent. 

“  Speak,”  said  the  Emperor ;  “  what  is  it  ?  ” 

“  The  legions !  ”  said  the  centurion,  as  soon  as  he 
could  command  his  words,  “  the  legions  are  advancing, 
crying  out  for  the  Queen  of  Palmyra  !  They  have  broken 
from  their  camp  and  from  their  leaders,  and  in  one 
mixed  body  come  to  surround  the  Emperor’s  tent.” 

As  he  ended,  the  fierce  cries  of  the  enraged  soldiery 
were  distinctly  heard,  like  the  roaring  of  a  forest  torn 
by  a  tempest.  Aurelian,  bearing  his  sword,  and  calling 
upon  his  friends  to  do  the  same,  sprang  toward  the  en¬ 
trance  of  the  tent.  They  were  met  by  the  dense  throng 
of  the  soldiers,  who  now  pressed  against  the  tent,  and 
whose  savage  yells  could  now  be  heard: 

“  The  head  of  Zenobia.”  “  Deliver  the  Queen  to  our 
will.”  “  Throw  out  the  head  of  Zenobia,  and  we  will 
return  to  our  quarters.”  “  She  belongs  to  us.” 


WILLIAM  WARE 


43 1 


At  the  same  moment  the  sides  of  the  tent  were  thrown 
tip,  showing  the  whole  plain  filled  with  the  heaving  mul¬ 
titude,  and  being  itself  instantly  crowded  with  the  ring¬ 
leaders  and  their  more  desperate  associates.  Zenobia, 
supporting  the  Princess,  who  clung  to  her,  and  pale 
through  a  just  apprehension  of  every  horror,  but  other¬ 
wise  firm  and  undaunted,  cried  out  to  Aurelian,  “  Save 
us,  O  Emperor,  from  this  foul  butchery  !  ” 

“We  will  die  else!”  replied  the  Emperor;  who  with 
a  word  sprang  upon  a  soldier  making  toward  the  Queen, 
and  with  a  blow  clove  him  to  the  earth.  Then  swing¬ 
ing  round  him  that  sword  which  had  drunk  the  blood  of 
thousands,  and  followed  by  the  gigantic  Sandarion  by 
Probus,  and  Carus,  a  space  around  the  Queen  was  soon 
cleared. 

“  Back,  ruffians,”  cried  Aurelian,  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
“  for  you  are  no  longer  Romans  !  back  to  the  borders  of 
the  tent.  There  I  will  hear  your  complaints.”  The 
soldiers  fell  back  and  their  ferocious  cries  ceased. 

“  Now,”  cried  the  Emperor,  addressing  them,  “  what  is 
your  will  that  thus  in  wild  disorder  you  throng  my  tent  ?  ” 

One  from  the  crowd  replied :  “  Our  will  is  that  the 

Queen  of  Palmyra  be  delivered  to  us  as  our  right,  in¬ 
stantly.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  our  bold  companions 
lie  buried  upon  these  accursed  plains,  slain  by  her  and 
her  fiery  engines.  We  demand  her  life.  It  is  but  justice, 
and  faint  justice,  too.” 

“  Her  life !  ”  “  Pier  life !  ”  arose  in  one  shout  from 

the  innumerable  throng. 

The  Emperor  raised  his  hand,  waving  his  sword,  drip¬ 
ping  with  the  blood  of  the  slain  soldier ;  the  noise  sub¬ 
sided  ;  and  his  voice,  clear  and  loud  like  the  tone  of  a 
trumpet,  went  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  the  multitude. 

“Soldiers,”  he  cried,  “you  ask  for  justice;  and  justice 
you  shall  have.”  “Aurelian  is  ever  just!”  cried  many 
voices.  “  But  you  shall  not  have  the  life  of  the  Queen 
of  Palmyra  ” —  he  paused ;  a  low  murmur  went  through 
the  crowd — “or  you  must  first  take  the  life  of  your 
Emperor,  and  of  those  who  stand  with  him.”  The  sol¬ 
diers  were  silent.  “  In  asking  the  life  of  Zenobia,”  he 
continued,  “  you  know  not  what  you  ask.  Are  any  here 


432 


WILLIAM  WARE 


who  went  with  Valerian  to  the  Persian  war?”  A  few 
voices  responded,  “  I  was  there  —  and  I  —  and  I.”  “  Are 

there  any  here  whose  parents,  or  brothers,  or  friends, 
fell  into  the  tiger  clutches  of  the  barbarian  Sapor,  and 
died  miserably  in  hopeless  captivity?”  Many  voices 
everywhere  throughout  the  crowd  were  heard  in  reply, 
“  Yes,  yes;  mine  were  there,  and  mine.”  “Did  you  ever 
hear  it  said,”  continued  Aurelian,  “  that  Rome  lifted  a 
finger  for  their  rescue,  or  for  that  of  the  good  Valerian?  ” 
They  were  silent,  some  crying,  “  No,  no.”  “  Know  then, 
that  when  Rome  forgot  her  brave  soldiers  and  her  Em¬ 
peror,  Zenobia  remembered  and  avenged  them ;  and 
Rome,  fallen  into  contempt  with  the  Persian,  was  raised 
to  her  ancient  renown  by  the  arms  of  her  ally,  the  brave 
Zenobia,  and  her  dominions  throughout  the  East  saved 
from  the  grasp  of  Sapor  only  by  her  valor.  While  Gal- 
lienus  wallowed  in  sensuality  and  forgot  Rome,  and  even 
his  own  great  father,  the  Queen  of  Palmyra  stood  forth, 
and  with  her  royal  husband,  the  noble  Odenatus,  was  in 
truth  the  savior  of  the  empire.  And  is  it  her  life  you 
would  have?  Were  that  a  just  return?  Were  that 
Roman  magnanimity?  And  grant  that  thousands  of  your 
brave  companions  lie  buried  upon  these  plains :  it  is  but 
the  fortune  of  war.  Were  they  not  slain  in  honorable 
fight,  in  the  siege  of  a  city,  for  its  defence  unequalled  in 
all  the  annals  of  war?  Cannot  Romans  honor  courage 
and  conduct,  though  in  an  enemy?  But  you  ask  for 
justice.  I  have  said  you  shall  have  justice.  You  shall. 
It  is  right  that  the  heads  and  advisers  of  this  revolt,  for 
such  the  Senate  deems  it,  should  be  cut  off.  It  is  the 
ministers  of  princes  who  are  the  true  devisers  of  a  na¬ 
tion’s  acts.  These,  when  in  our  power,  shall  be  yours. 
And  now,  who,  soldiers  !  stirred  up  with  mutiny,  bringing 
inexpiable  shame  upon  our  brave  legions  —  who  are  the 
leaders  of  the  tumult  ?  ” 

Enough  were  found  to  name  them : 

“  Firmus  !  Carinus  !  the  Centurions  Plancus  !  Tatius! 
Burrhus  !  Valens  !  Crispinus  !  ” 

“  Guards  !  seize  them  and  hew  them  down.  Soldiers ! 
to  your  tents.  The  legions  fell  back  as  tumultuously  as 


CY  W ARMAN 


433 


they  had  come  together ;  the  faster,  as  the  dying  groans 
of  the  slaughtered  ringleaders  fell  upon  their  ears. 

The  tent  of  the  Emperor  was  once  more  restored  to 
order.  After  a  brief  conversation,  in  which  Aurelian 
expressed  his  shame  for  the  occurrence  of  such  dis¬ 
orders  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen,  the  guard  were 
commanded  to  convey  back  to  the  palace  of  Seleucus, 
whence  they  had  been  taken,  Zenobia  and  the  Princess. 
—  Zenobia. 


'ARMAN,  Cy,  an  American  journalist,  essay¬ 
ist  and  poet;  born  at  Greenup,  Ill.,  June  22, 
1855.  In  1880  he  removed  to  Colorado, 
where  he  became  engaged  in  journalism.  He  was  edi¬ 
tor  of  The  Western  Railway  in  1888,  and  of  the  Creede 
Chronicle  in  1892.  He  became  known  as  “  the  poet  of 
the  Rockies  ”  and  won  fame  as  author  of  Siveet  Marie , 
a  popular  song.  In  1893  he  removed  to  New  York 
and  later  took  up  his  residence  at  London,  Canada. 
He  has  published  Tales  of  an  Engineer  (1895); 
Snow  on  the  Headlight  (1899)  ;  Short  Rails  (1900). 

Mr.  Warman  in  a  delightful  sketch  tells  how  he 
came  to  write  Sweet  Marie. 


HOW  “  SWEET  MARIE  ”  WAS  WRITTEN. 

The  sun  had  just  gone  down  behind  the  hoary  hills, 
flooding  the  June  twilight  with  it's  gold  and  glory.  Hav¬ 
ing  finished  my  dinner,  I  had  strolled  out  to  take  a  turn 
beneath  the  maple  trees  that  line  the  walk  about  the 
courthouse.  Honey  laden,  homeward  bound,  belated  bees 
droned  in  the  trees,  and  all  the  world  seemed  filled  with 
the  sound  and  scent  of  summer. 

Here  would  I  walk  and  watch  out  the  dying  day,  and 
breathe  the  pure  air  fresh  from  the  snow  fields  of  the 
Vol.  XXIII.— 28 


434 


CY  W ARMAN 


north.  Here,  too,  I  hoped  to  win  a  good  night  smile,  for 
down  this  way  she  was  to  pass  to  the  theater  —  with 
another  man.  I  was  turning  the  corner  when  she  came. 
Face  to  face  we  met,  and  such  a  smile  !  There  was  a 
world  of  tenderness  in  it,  and,  with  a  man’s  conceit,  I 
fancied  there  was  something  back  of  it. 

I  wondered,  too,  if  she  had  guessed  my  secret,  and 
while  the  sound  of  her  carriage  wheels  were  still  in  my 
ears  I  said,  half  aloud : 

I’ve  a  secret  in  my  heart, 

Sweet  Marie; 

A  tale  I  would  impart 
Love,  to  thee. 

And  then,  as  a  man  having  been  drunk  with  wine  im¬ 
agines  that  everybody  knows  it,  I  felt  that  my  secret  was 
out,  and  I  had  gone  less  than  a  dozen  yards  when  I 
finished  the  half  stanza : 

Every  daisy  in  the  dell 

Knows  my  secret  —  knows  it  well, 

And  yet  I  dare  not  tell  Sweet  Marie. 

Then  the  whole  song  same  rushing  upon  me  like  a 
mountain  stream  after  a  cloudburst.  Like  a  gleam  of 
glory  in  a  gob  of  gloom  it  came  fast,  and  flooded  my  soul 
and  filled  me  with  lustless  joy.  On  I  walked,  sang  my 
new  song  and  gloried  in  it  as  a  happy  mother  glories  in 
the  first  faint  smile  of  a  new  born  babe. 

When  more  people  and  the  stars  came  out,  and  there 
was  no  longer  room  for  the  wide  wings  of  my  muse,  I 
boarded  a  cable  car  and  went  out  to  the  very  shadows  of 
the  hills.  Then  the  white  moon  came  up  from  the  plains, 
making  one  of  those  matchless  moonlit  nights  that  in¬ 
variably  follow  a  perfect  day  in  Denver.  The  tired  lawn 
mower  that  had  struggled  all  day  against  a  vigorous  brass 
band,  at  last  lay  down,  and  the  mellow  notes  of  the  t'u  bah 
came  faint  and  far  away. 

Far  into  the  night  I  sat  there,  saying  it  o’er  and  o’er, 
till  every  line  was  registered  in  my  memory. 


CY  W ARMAN 


435 


The  following  summer  I  gave  the  poem  to  General 
David  S.  Stanley.  He  submitted  it  to  Mr.  Dana ;  it  was 
accepted,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  received  some 
editorial  mention,  and  I  rejoiced  anew. 

I  think  it  was  ex-Congressman  Belford,  the  “  Red 
Headed  Rooster  of  the  Rockies,”  as  he  was  known  in  the 
House,  who  first  advised  me  to  have  the  verses  set  to 
music. 

Raymon  Moore  was  in  Denver  at  the  time  and  I  per¬ 
suaded  him  to  call  at  my  office.  When  I  read  the  song 
to  him  he  snapped  his  fingers  —  tears  of  enthusiasm 
stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  declared  that  it  would  make  “  the 
sweetest  song  ever  sung.” 

Out  of  the  third  stanza,  which  begun  originally : 

Not  the  sun-glints  in  your  hair, 

Sweet  Marie, 

Nor  because  your  face  is  fair, 

Love,  to  see ; 

I  made  a  chorus,  had  my  stenographer  copy  it,  then  hold¬ 
ing  the  revised  copy  in  his  hand  he  began  to  hum. 
“  Something  sweet  and  slow,”  he  said,  “  like  this ;”  then 
he  sang  exactly  as  a  million  mouths  have  sung  since: 

“  Come  to  me,  Sweet  Marie, 

Sweet  Marie,  come  to  me.” 

I  repeated  and  remembered  the  notes  he  sang,  and  when 
a  year  later  Will  T.  Carleton  came  to  the  footlights  in  the 
Broadway  Theater  and  sang  the  song,  I  was  glad  to  note 
that  Mr.  Moore  had  not  varied  a  shadow  from  his  first' 
inspiration. 

It  happened  that  about  the  time  the  first  faint  echoes 
of  the  song  reached  the  Rocky  Mountains  we  started  East, 
and  listened  with  eager  ears  to  hear  it  sung. 

The  black  boy  on  the  Burlington  husked  his  pillows 
and  hummed  that  tune.  At  Chicago  we  hear  it  after. 
At  Cleveland  a  man  pounded  the  wheels  with  a  hard 
hammer  and  sang  softly,  as  to  himself. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  in  the  Imperial  in  New  York  the 


436 


CY  W ARMAN 


orchestra  played  it,  and  where  we  shopped  the  shop  girls 
sang  it,  and  even  as  we  exchanged  congratulatory  smiles 
a  wild  toned  street  piano  played  Sweet  Marie  in  the  street. 

At  Manhattan  Beach  we  had  the  great  joy  of  hearing 
Sousa’s  Band  play  it;  heard  Raymon  sing  it  in  a  theater 
in  town ;  then  Mr.  Moore  and  I  went  over  to  see  the 
publishing  company.  From  there  we  went  to  Broad 
street,  where  each  received  a  check  for  more  money,  we 
thought,  than  there  was  in  the  world. 

“How’ll  you  have  it?”  asked  a  cheery  voice,  as  we 
faced  the  paying  teller  in  a  Nassau  street  bank. 

“  Big  pieces,”  said  I. 

“And  you?” 

“  Two  one  thousand,  two  five  hundred  and  the  rest  in 
ones,”  said  Raymon.  And  as  the  money  man  began  to 
slide  out  the  notes,  he  said,  “  I’ve  a  secret  in  my  heart.” 
But  that  was  as  far  as  he  got,  for  we  both  laughed  —  not 
at  him,  of  course,  but  it  was  time  to  laugh. 


“  GIVE  ME  NOT  RICHES.” 

I  want  to  find  a  place  for  me 

Where  nature’s  harps  are  all  in  tune, 

A  calm,  or  a  still,  on  life’s  rough  sea, 

A  place  where  it’s  always  afternoon ; 

A  quiet,  peaceful  place  somewhere 
Between  the  tramp  and  the  millionaire. 

Where  it’s  not  all  joy  and  not  all  pain; 

Not  too  much  shine,  nor  too  much  shade; 
Just  a  place  to  hide  me  from  the  rain; 

An  easy  place  where  the  rent  is  paid, 
And  not  too  close  to  the  man  of  care, 

And  not  too  far  from  the  millionaire. 

THE  ISOLATION  OF  A  CHILD. 

I  once  knew  a  dear  little  mother, 

With  a  beautiful,  blue-eyed  boy. 

She  constantly  bathed  and  brushed  him, 


CY  W ARMAN 


437 


And  when  he  had  tired  of  a  toy 
She  would  take  it  and  scald  it  and  scrape  it 
And  lay  it  away  in  the  sun, 

And  that  is  the  way  she  took  care  of 
His  playthings,  every  one. 

Pent  up  in  his  own  little  playhouse, 

The  baby  grew  peaked  and  pale, 

And  there  were  the  neighbors’  children 
All  dirty  and  happy  and  hale. 

If  the  baby  went  out  for  an  airing, 

The  nurse  was  to  understand 
That  none  of  the  neighbors’  children 
Was  ever  to  touch  his  hand. 

But  they  did,  and  the  injured  mother 
Brought  the  dear  baby  inside 
And  shut  him  up  in  his  playhouse, 

Where  the  little  one  fretted  and  died. 

Then  the  torn  heart  turned  to  the  Virgin, 

And  this  was  the  weight  of  the  prayer: 

“  Oh,  mother,  dear,  don’t  let  him  play  with 
The  other  angels  up  there  !  ” 

SONG  OF  A  SERENADE. 

One  night  beneath  my  window,  when  the  stars  were 
bright  above, 

The  music  of  a  mandolin,  blent  with  a  lay  of  love, 

Came  stealing  through  the  stillness  like  the  balmy  breath 
of  spring; 

I  opened  up  my  window  blinds  and  heard  a  singer  sing: 

“  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow’s  ever  set, 

And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  flies,  as  from  a  falconet; 

His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true, 

Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow’s  aimed  at  you  !  ” 

At  first  I  only  lingered  there  to  listen  for  a  while, 

And  thought  the  singer  only  sang  the  hours  to  beguile. 

My  heart  began  to  tremble  with  the  touch  of  every  string, 


438  ANNA  BARTLETT  WARNER 

I  opened  wide  my  window  blinds  and  heard  the  singer 
sing : 

“  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow’s  ever  set, 

And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  flies,  as  from  a  falconet; 
His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true, 

Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow’s  aimed  at  you !  ” 

The  weary  day  I’m  waiting  for  the  twilight  shades  to  fall, 
And  where  the  tangled  woodland  waves  I  hear  the  lone 
dove  call. 

The  song  of  running  brooklets  and  a  thousand  birds 
a-wing 

My  eager  ears  will  hear  not,  when  my  love  begins  to  sing: 

“  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow’s  ever  set, 

And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  bies,  as  from  a  falconet; 
His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true. 

Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow’s  aimed  at  you !  ” 


ARNER,  Anna  Bartlett  (“Amy  Loth- 
rop'’),  an  American  novelist,  sister  of 
4  Susan  Warner;  born  at  New  York  in  1820. 
Besides  the  works  written  in  conjunction  with  her  sis¬ 
ter,  Susan  Warner,  she  is  the  author  of  several  novels, 
and  many  works  designed  for  juvenile  readers. 
Among  these  are  Dollars  and  Cents  (1S53)  ;  My 
Brother's  Keeper  (1855)  ;  Three  Little  Spades  (1870)  ; 
Stories  of  Vinegar  Hill  (1871);  The  Fourth  Watch 
(1872)  ;  Gardening  by  Myself  (1872)  ;  The  Other 
Shore  (1873)  j  Miss  TitlePs  Vegetable  Garden  (1875)  ; 
A  Bag  of  Stories  (1883)  ;  Daisy  Plains  (1886)  ;  Cross 
Corners  (1887)  >  Patience  (1891)  ;  Up  and  Down  the 
House  (1892),  and  several  volumes  of  poems. 


ANNA  BARTLETT  WARNER 


439 


THE  FLOWER  GIFTS 

Nothing  had  been  heard  of  little  Dick’s  garden  for 
some  time,  and  though  Clover  had  been  very  anxious  to 
see  it,  she  had  not  dared  to  say  a  word.  But  one  day, 
after  the  dry  weather  had  passed  by,  and  the  showers 
had  come  to  make  everything  look  fresh,  Sam  proposed 
that  they  should  take  a  walk  that  way,  and  see  Dick’s 
balsams. 

“  We’ll  see  if  they  look  like  yours,  Clover,”  said  little 
Primrose. 

“But  has  Dick  got  any  heart’s-ease,  Sam?”  said  little 
Primrose. 

“  I  think  not.” 

“  Then  I’d  better  take  him  some,”  said  Prim,  with  a 
very  grave  face. 

“  But  you’ll  kill  the  plants,  dear,  if  you  take  them  up 
now,  when  they  are  all  full  of  flowers,’’  said  Clover; 
“  or  at  least  kill  the  flowers.” 

“  It’s  only  the  flowers  I  mean  to  take,”  replied  Prim¬ 
rose,  as  gravely  as  before.  “  I’ll  take  Dick  a  bunch  of 
’em.” 

“  What’s  that  for  ?  ”  said  Sam,  putting  his  hand  under 
her  chin,  and  bringing  her  little  sober  face  into  view. 

“  Because,”  said  Prim,  “  I’ve  been  thinking  about  it  a 
great  deal  —  about  what  mamma  said.  And  if  God  asked 
me  what  I  had  done  with  my  heart’s-ease,  I  shouldn’t 
like  to  say  I’d  never  given  Dick  one.” 

“  Oh,  if  that’s  all,”  said  Lily,  “  I  can  pick  him  a  great 
bunch  of  petunias.  Do  ’em  good,  too  —  they  want  cut¬ 
ting.”  . 

While  Lily  flew  down  to  her  garden  and  began  to  pull 
off  the  petunias  with  an  unsparing  hand,  Primrose 
crouched  down  by  her  patch  of  heart’s-ease,  carefully 
cutting  one  of  each  shade  and  tint  that  she  could  find, 
putting  them  lovingly  together,  with  quite  an  artistic 
arrangement  of  colors. 

“Exquisite!”  said  Sam,  watching  her.  Prim  started 
up  and  smiled. 

“  Dear  me,  how  splendid !  ”  said  Lily,  running  up,  with 


440 


ANNA  BARTLETT  WARNER 


her  hands  full  of  petunias;  “but  just  look  at  these! 
What  will  you  take,  Clover?” 

“  I  think  —  I  shall  not  take  anything,”  said  Clover, 
slowly. 

“  Nothing!  out  of  all  your  garden!  ”  said  Lily.  Clover 
flushed  crimson. 

“  I’m  not  sure  that  Dick  would  care  to  have  me  bring 
any  of  my  flowers,”  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  “  Maybe  I 
can  find - ”  And  she  hurried  off,  coming  back  pres¬ 

ently  with  a  half-open  rosebud,  which  she  quietly  put  in 
Prim’s  hand,  to  go  with  the  heart’s-ease.  Then  they 
set  off. 

Dick,  of  course,  was  in  his  garden  —  he  was  always 
there  when  it  did  not  rain,  and  sometimes  when  it  did; 
and  visitors  were  a  particularly  pleasant  thing  to  him 
now  that'  he  had  flowers  to  show.  He  welcomed  them 
very  joyfully,  beginning  at  once  to  display  his  treasures. 
Great  was  the  surprise  of  Lily  and  Primrose  to  see  the 
very  same  flowers  in  Dick’s  garden  that  there  were  in 
Clover’s  —  the  beautiful  camelia-flowered  balsams  and 
the  graceful  amaranths  and  the  showy  zinnias ;  even  a 
canary-vine  was  there,  fluttering  over  the  fence. 

“  But  where  did  you  get  them  all  ?  ”  cried  Lily. 

“  A  lady,”  said  Dick.  “  She’s  a  good  one ;  and  that’s 
all  I  know.” 

“Where  does  she  live?”  inquired  Sam. 

“  Don’t  know,  sir,”  said  Dick.  “  Nobody  didn’t  tell 
me  that.  Man  that  fetched  ’em  —  that’s  the  seeds  and 
little  green  things  —  he  said,  says  he,  ‘  These  be  out  of 
the  young  lady’s  own  garden,’  says  he.” 

“Young  lady!”  said  Lily.  “Oh,  I  dare  say  it  was 
Maria  Jarvis.  You  know,  Clover,  she’s  got  such  loads 
of  flowers  in  her  garden,  and  a  man  to  take  care  of  ’em 
and  all.” 

But  Clover  did  not  answer,  and  seemed  rather  in  haste 
to  get  away,  opening  the  little  gate,  and  stepping  out 
upon  the  road,  and  when  Sam  looked  at  her  he  saw  that 
she  was  biting  her  lips  very  hard  to  keep  from  laughing. 
It  must  have  pleased  him  —  Clover’s  face,  or  the  laugh¬ 
ing.  or  the  flowers,  or  something — for  the  first  thing 
he  did  when  they  were  all  outside  the  gate  was  to  put 


4 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


441 


his  arm  around  Clover  and  give  her  a  good  hearty  kiss. 
Little  Prim  all  this  while  had  said  scarcely  a  word, 
looking  on  with  all  her  eyes,  as  we  say.  But  when  Prim 
was  going  to  bed  that  night,  and  Mrs.  May  bent  over 
her  for  a  parting  embrace,  Prim  said : 

“  Mamma,  I  don’t  think  God  will  ever  ask  Clover 
what  she’s  done  with  her  flowers.” 

“  Why  not  ?  ”  asked  her  mother. 

“  Because,”  answered  Primrose,  sedately,  “  I  think  Pie 
told  her  what  to  do  with  ’em  —  and  I  think  she’s  done  it.” 
—  Three  Little  Spades. 


ARNER,  Charles  Dudley,  an  American 
journalist,  essayist  and  novelist;  born  at 
Plainfield,  Mass.,  September  12,  1829;  died 
at  Hartford,  Conn.,  October  20,  1900.  He  studied  at 
the  Oneida  Conference  Seminary  at  Cazenovia,  and 
entered  Hamilton  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1851.  Subsequently  he  studied  law  at  Philadelphia  in 
1856,  and  practiced  his  profession  at  Chicago  until 
i860.  But  the  bent  of  his  mind  was  toward  literary 
rather  than  legal  pursuits,  and  just  before  the  breaking 
out  of  the  civil  war  he  became  assistant  editor  of  the 
Evening  Post,  at  Hartford,  Conn.  This  journal  was 
in  1867  united  with  the  Hartford  C  our  ant,  of  which 
he  became  editor  and  part  proprietor.  Still  retaining 
this  position,  he  became  in  1884  editorially  connected 
with  Harper's  Magazine.  His  principal  works  are : 
My  Summer  in  a  Garden  (1870)  ;  Saunierings,  remi¬ 
niscences  of  a  European  trip  (1872)  :  Backlog  Studies 
(1872);  Baddeck  and  That  Sort  of  Thing  (1874); 
My  Winter  on  the  Nile  (1876)  ;  In  the  Levant  (1877)  ; 
Being  a  Boy  (1877)  ;  Life  of  Captain  John  Smith 


44- 


CH ARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


(1877)  ;  In  the  Wilderness  (1878)  ;  Life  of  Washing¬ 
ton  Irving  (1880)  ;  Roundabout  Journey  (1883)  ; 
Their  Pilgrimage  (1886)  ;  Book  of  Eloquence  (1886)  ; 
On  Horseback  (1888)  ;  A  Little  Journey  in  the  World 
and  Studies  in  the  South  and  West  (1889);  As  We 
Were  Saying  (1892)  ;  As  We  Go  (1893)  ;  The  Work 
of  Washington  Irving  (1893);  The  Golden  House 
(1895)  ;  The  Relation  of  Literature  to  Life  (1896)  ; 
and  The  People  for  Whom  Shakespeare  Wrote.  In 
1873  he  wrote  The  Gilded  Age ,  in  conjunction  with 
“  Mark  Twain.” 

THE  MORAL  QUALITIES  OF  VEGETABLES. 

I  am  more  and  more  impressed  with  the  moral  quali¬ 
ties  of  vegetables,  and  contemplate  forming  a  science 
which  will  rank  with  comparative  philology  —  the  science 
of  Comparative  Vegetable  Morality.  We  live  in  an  age 
of  Protoplasm.  And,  if  life-matter  is  essentially  the 
same  in  all  forms  of  life,  I  propose  to  begin  early,  and 
ascertain  the  nature  of  the  plants  for  which  I  am  re¬ 
sponsible.  I  will  not  associate  with  any  vegetable  which 
is  disreputable,  or  has  not  some  quality  which  can  con¬ 
tribute  to  my  moral  growth.  .  .  . 

Why  do  we  respect  some  vegetables,  and  despise  others, 
when  all  of  them  come  to  an  equal  honor  or  ignominy 
on  the  table  ?  The  bean  is  a  graceful,  confiding,  engag¬ 
ing  vine;  but  you  can  never  put  beans  into  poetry,  nor 
into  the  highest  sort  of  prose.  There  is  no  dignity  in 
the  bean.  Corn  —  which  in  my  garden  grows  alongside 
the  bean,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  with  no  affectation 
of  superiority  —  is,  however  the  child  of  song.  It  waves 
in  all  literature.  But  mix  it  with  beans,  and  its  high 
tone  is  gone.  Succotash  is  vulgar.  It  is  the  bean  in  it. 
The  bean  is  a  vulgar  vegetable,  without  culture,  or  any 
flavor  of  high  society  among  vegetables. 

Then  there  is  the  cool  cucumber  —  like  so  many  peo¬ 
ple,  good  for  nothing  when  it  is  ripe,  and  the  wildness 
has  gone  out  of  it.  How  inferior  to  the  melon,  which 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


grows  upon  a  similar  vine,  is  of  a  like  watery  consist¬ 
ency,  but  is  not  half  so  valuable.  The  cucumber  is  a 
sort  of  low  comedian  in  a  company  where  the  melon  is 
a  minor  gentleman.  I  might  also  contrast  the  celery 
with  the  potato.  The  associations  are  as  opposite  as 
the  dining-room  of  the  duchess  and  the  cabin  of  the 
peasant.  I  admire  the  potato  both  in  vine  and  blossom; 
but  it  is  not  aristocratic.  .  .  . 

The  lettuce  is  to  me  a  most  interesting  study.  •  Let¬ 
tuce  is  like  conversation :  it  must  be  fresh  and  crisp,  so 
sparkling  that  you  scarcely  notice  the  bitter  in  it.  Let¬ 
tuce,  like  most  talkers,  is  however  apt  to  run  rapidly  to 
seed.  Blessed  is  that  sort  which  comes  to  a  head,  and 
so  remains  —  like  a  few  people  I  know  —  growing  more 
solid  and  satisfactory  and  tender  at  the  same  time,  and 
whiter  at  the  centre,  and  crisp  in  their  maturity.  Let¬ 
tuce,  like  conversation,  requires  a  good  deal  of  oil,  to 
avoid  friction,  and  keep  the  company  smooth ;  a  pinch 
of  Attic  salt,  a  dash  of  pepper,  a  quantity  of  mustard 
and  vinegar,  by  all  means  —  but  so  mixed  that  you  will 
notice  no  sharp  contrasts  —  and  a  trifle  of  sugar.  You 
can  put  anything  —  and  the  more  things  the  better  —  into 
salad,  as  into  conversation ;  but  everything  depends  upon 
the  skill  in  mixing.  I  feel  that  I  am  in  the  best  society 
when  I  am  with  lettuce.  It  is  in  the  select  circle  of 
vegetables.  The  tomato  appears  well  on  the  table ;  but 
you  do  not  want  to  ask  its  origin.  It  is  a  most  agreeable 
parvenu. 

Of  course,  I  have  said  nothing  about  the  berries. 
They  live  in  another  and  more  ideal  region ;  except  per¬ 
haps  the  currant.  Here  we  see  that  even  among  berries 
there  are  degrees  of  breeding.  The  currant  is  well 
enough,  clear  as  truth,  and  exquisite  in  color ;  but  I  ask 
you  to  notice  how  far  it  is  from  the  exclusive  hauteur 
of  the  aristocratic  strawberry,  and  the  native  refinement 
of  the  quietly  elegant  raspberry. 

I  do  not  know  that  chemistry,  searching  for  proto¬ 
plasm,  is  able  to  discover  the  tendency  of  vegetables. 
It  can  only  be  found  out  by  outward  observation.  I 
confess  that  I  am  suspicious  of  the  bean,  for  instance. 
There  are  signs  in  it  of  an  unregulated  life.  I  put  up 


444 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


the  most  attractive  sort  of  poles  for  my  Limas.  They 
stand  high  and  straight  like  church-spires,  in  my  theo¬ 
logical  garden  —  lifted  up;  and  some  of  them  have  even 
budded,  like  Aaron’s  rod.  No  church-steeple  in  a  New 
England  village  was  ever  better  fitted  to  draw  to  it  the 
rising  generation  on  Sunday  than  those  poles  to  lift  up 
my  beans  toward  heaven.  Some  of  them  did  run  up 
the  sticks  seven  feet,  and  then  straggled  off  into  the  air 
in  a  wanton  manner;  but  more  than  half  of  them  went 
gallivanting  off  to  the  neighboring  grape-trellis,  and 
wound  their  tendrils  with  the  tendrils  of  the  grape,  with 
a  disregard  of  the  proprieties  of  life  which  is  a  satire 
upon  human  nature.  And  the  grape  is  morally  no  better. 
I  think  the  ancients,  who  were  not  troubled  with  the 
recondite  mysteries  of  protoplasm,  were  right  in  the 
mythic  union  of  Bacchus  and  Venus. 

Talk  about'  the  Darwinian  theory  of  development,  and 
the  principle  of  natural  selection !  I  should  like  to  see 
a  garden  let  to  run  in  accordance  with  it.  If  I  had  left 
my  vegetables  and  weeds  to  a  free  fight,  in  which  the 
strongest  specimens  only  should  come  to  maturity,  and 
the  weaker  go  to  the  wall,  I  can  clearly  see  that  I  should 
have  had  a  pretty  mess  of  it.  It  would  have  been  a 
scene  of  passion  and  license  and  brutality.  The  “  pus- 
ley  ”  would  have  strangled  the  strawberry ;  the  upright 
corn,  which  has  now  ears  to  hear  the  guilty  beating  of 
the  hearts  of  the  children  who  steal  the  raspberries, 
would  have  been  dragged  to  the  earth  by  the  wander¬ 
ing  bean ;  the  snake-grass  would  have  left  no  place  for 
the  potatoes  under  ground ;  and  the  tomatoes  would 
have  been  swamped  by  the  lusty  weeds.  With  a  firm 
hand  I  have  had  to  make  my  own  “  natural  selection.” 

Nothing  will  so  well  bear  watching  as  a  garden,  ex¬ 
cept  a  family  of  children  next  door.  Their  power  of 
selection  beats  mine.  If  they  could  read  half  as  well  as 
they  can  “  steal  awhile  away,”  I  should  have  put  up  a 
notice  — “  Children,  beware !  There  is  Protoplasm 
here !  ”  But  I  suppose  it  would  have  no  effect.  I  be¬ 
lieve  that  they  would  eat  protoplasm  as  quick  as  any¬ 
thing  else,  ripe  or  green.  I  wonder  if  this  is  going  to 
be  a  cholera-year.  Considerable  cholera  is  the  only 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


445 


thing  that  would  let  my  apples  and  pears  ripen.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  care  for  the  fruit ;  but  I  do  not  want  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  letting  so  much  “  life-matter,” 
full  of  crude  and  even  disreputable  vegetable-human 
tendencies  pass  into  the  composition  of  the  neighbor’s 
children,  some  of  whom  may  be  as  immortal  as  snake- 
grass. —  My  Summer  in  a  Garden . 

A  COMMERCIAL  TRANSACTION  IN  ORANGES. 

One  of  our  expeditions  illustrates  the  Italian  love  of 
bargaining,  and  their  notion  of  a  sliding  scale  of  prices. 
One  of  our  expeditions  to  the  hills  was  making  its  long, 
straggling  way  through  the  narrow  streets  of  a  little 
village,  when  I  lingered  behind  my  companions,  attracted 
by  a  hand-cart  with  several  large  baskets  of  oranges. 
The  cart  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street ;  and  select¬ 
ing  a  large  orange,  which  would  measure  twelve  inches 
in  circumference,  I  turned  to  look  for  the  owner.  After 
some  time  the  fellow  got  from  the  neighboring  cobbler’s 
shop,  where  he  sat  with  his  lazy  cronies,  listening  to  the 
honest  gossip  of  the  follower  of  St.  Crispin,  and  saun¬ 
tered  toward  me. 

“  How  much  for  this?  ”  I  ask. 

“  One  franc,  Signor,”  says  the  proprietor,  with  a  polite 
bow,  holding  up  one  finger. 

I  shake  my  head,  and  intimate  that  this  is  altogether 
too  much.  The  proprietor  is  very  indifferent,  and 
shrugs  his  shoulders  in  an  amiable  manner.  He  picks 
up  a  fair,  handsome  orange,  weighs  it  in  his  hands,  and 
holds  it  up  temptingly.  That  also  is  one  franc.  I  sug¬ 
gest  one  sou  as  a  fair  price  —  a  suggestion  which  he  only 
receives  with  a  smile  of  slight  pity,  and,  I  fancy,  a  little 
disdain.  A  woman  joins  him,  and  also  holds  up  this  and 
that  gold-skinned  one  for  my  admiration. 

As  I  stand  sorting  over  the  fruit,  trying  to  please  my¬ 
self  with  the  size,  color,  and  texture,  a  little  crowd  has 
gathered  round ;  and  I  see  by  a  glance  that  all  the  occu¬ 
pations  in  that  neighborhood,  including  loafing,  are  tem¬ 
porarily  suspended  to  witness  the  trade.  The  interest 
of  the  circle  visibly  increases;  and  others  take  such  a 


446 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


part  in  the  transaction,  that  I  begin  to  doubt  if  the  first 
man  is,  after  all,  the  proprietor. 

At  length  I  select  two  oranges,  and  again  demand  the 
price.  There  is  a  little  consultation  and  jabber,  when 
I  am  told  that  I  can  have  both  for  a  franc.  I,  in  turn, 
sigh,  shrug  my  shoulders,  and  put  down  the  oranges 
amid  a  chorus  of  exclamations  over  my  graspingness. 
My  offer  of  two  sous  is  met  with  ridicule,  but  not  with 
indifference.  I  can  see  that  it  has  made  a  sensation. 
These  simple,  idle  children  of  the  sun  begin  to  show  a 
little  excitement.  I  at  length  determine  upon  a  bold 
stroke,  and  resolve  to  show  myself  the  Napoleon  of 
oranges,  or  to  meet  my  Waterloo.  I  pick  out  four  of  the 
largest  oranges  in  the  basket,  while  all  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  me  intently,  and  for  the  first  time  pull  out  a  piece 
of  money.  It  is  a  two-sous  piece.  I  offer  it  for  the 
four  oranges. 

“  No,  no,  no,  Signor  !  Ah,  Signor  !  Ah,  Signor  !  ”  in 
a  chorus  from  the  whole  crowd. 

I  have  struck  bottom  at  last,  and  perhaps  got  some¬ 
where  near  the  value ;  and  all  calmness  is  gone.  Such 
protestations,  such  indignation,  such  sorrow,  I  have 
never  seen  before  from  so  small  a  cause.  “  It  cannot  be 
thought  of !  It  is  mere  ruin  !  ”  I  am,  in  turn,  as  firm, 
and  nearly  as  excited  in  seeming.  I  hold  up  the  fruit, 
and  tender  the  money. 

“No,  never,  never!  The  Signor  cannot  be  in  ear¬ 
nest  !  ” 

Looking  round  me  for  a  moment,  and  assuming  a 
theatrical  manner  befitting  the  gestures  of  those  about 
me,  I  fling  the  fruit  down,  and  with  a  sublime  renuncia¬ 
tion  stalk  away.  There  is  instantly  a  buzz  and  a  clamor. 
I  have  not  proceeded  far  when  a  skinny  old  woman  runs 
after  me  and  begs  me  to  return.  I  go  back,  and  the 
crowd  parts  to  receive  me. 

The  proprietor  has  a  new  proposition,  the  effect  of 
which  upon  me  is  intently  watched.  He  proposes  to 
give  me  five  big  oranges  for  four  sous.  I  receive  it  with 
utter  scorn,  and  a  laugh  of  derision.  I  will  give  two 
sous  for  the  original  four  and  not  a  centissimo  more. 
That'  I  solemnly  say,  and  am  ready  to  depart.  Hesita- 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


447 


tion,  and  renewed  conference;  but  at  last  the  proprietor 
relents ;  and,  with  the  look  of  one  who  is  ruined  for 
life,  and  who  yet  is  willing  to  sacrifice  himself,  he  hands 
me  the  oranges.  Instantly  the  excitement  is  dead ;  the 
crowd  disperses;  and  the  street  is  as  quiet  as  ever  when 
I  walk  away,  bearing  my  hard-won  treasures. 

A  little  while  after,  as  I  sat  upon  the  Camaldoli,  with 
my  feet  hanging  over,  these  same  oranges  were  taken 
from  my  pockets  by  Americans ;  so  that  I  am  prevented 
from  making  any  moral  reflections  upon  the  honesty  of 
the  Italians. —  Saunterings. 

A  YANKEE  PHILOSOPHER. 

I  confess  that  I  have  a  soft  place  in  my  heart  for  that 
rare  character  in  our  New  -England  life  who  is  content 
with  the  world  as  he  finds  it;  and  who  does  not  at¬ 
tempt  to  appropriate  any  more  of  it  to  himself  than  he 
absolutely  needs  from  day  to  day.  He  knows  from  the 
beginning  that  the  world  could  get  on  without  him,  and 
he  has  never  had  any  anxiety  to  leave  any  result  behind 
him  —  any  legacy  for  the  world  to  quarrel  over.  He  is 
really  an  exotic  in  our  New  England  climate  and  so¬ 
ciety;  and  his  life  is  perpetually  misunderstood  by  his 
neighbors,  because  he  shares  none  of  their  anxiety  about 
“  getting  on  in  life.”  He  is  even  called  “  lazy,”  “  good- 
for-nothing,”  and  “shiftless” — the  final  stigma  that  we 
put  upon  a  person  who  has  learned  to  wait  without'  the 
exhausting  process  of  laboring. 

I  made  his  acquaintance  last  summer  in  the  country ; 
and  I  have  not  for  a  long  time  been  so  well  pleased  with 
any  of  our  species.  He  had  always  been  from  boyhood 
of  a  contented  and  placid  mind ;  slow  in  his  movements, 
slow  in  his  speech.  I  think  he  never  cherished  a  hard 
feeling  toward  anybody,  nor  envied  anyone  —  least  of 
all  the  rich  and  prosperous,  about'  whom  he  liked  to 
talk.  Indeed,  his  talk  was  a  good  deal  about  wealth, 
especially  about  his  cousin  who  had  been  down  South, 
and  “  got  fore-handed  ”  within  a  few  years.  But  he  had 
no  envy  in  him,  and  he  evinced  no  desire  to  imitate  him. 
I  inferred  from  all  his  conversation  about  “  piling  it 


448 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


up  ”  (of  which  he  spoke  with  a  gleam  of  enthusiasm  in 
his  eye),  that  there  were  moments  when  he  would  like 
to  be  rich  himself ;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  would 
never  make  the  least  effort  to  be  so ;  and  I  doubt  if  he 
could  even  overcome  that  delicious  inertia  of  mind  and 
body  called  laziness,  sufficiently  to  inherit. 

Wealth  seemed  to  have  a  far  and  peculiar  fascination 
for  him;  and  I  suspect  he  was  a  visionary  in  the  midst 
of  his  poverty.  Yet  I  suppose  he  had  hardly  the  per¬ 
sonal  property  which  the  law  exempts  from  execution. 
He  had  lived  in  a  great  many  towns,  moving  from  one 
to  another  with  his  growing  family  by  easy  stages,  and 
was  always  the  poorest  man  in  the  town,  and  lived  on 
the  most  niggardly  of  its  rocky  and  bramble-grown 
farms,  the  productiveness  of  which  he  reduced  to  zero 
in  a  couple  of  years  by  his  careful  neglect  of  culture. 
The  fences  of  his  hired  domain  always  fell  into  ruins  un¬ 
der  him,  perhaps  because  he  sat  upon  them  so  much, 
and  the  hovels  he  occupied  rotted  down  during  his 
placid  residence  in  them.  He  moved  from  desolation  to 
desolation ;  but  carried  always  with  him  the  equal  mind 
of  a  philosopher.  Not  even  the  occasional  tart  remarks 
of  his  wife  about  their  nomadic  life,  and  his  serenity  in 
the  midst  of  discomfort,  could  ruffle  his  smooth  spirit. 

He  was  in  every  respect  a  most  worthy  man ;  truth¬ 
ful,  honest,  temperate,  and,  I  need  not  say,  frugal.  He 
had  no  bad  habits ;  perhaps  he  never  had  energy  enough 
to  acquire  any.  Nor  did  he  lack  the  knack  of  the  Yan¬ 
kee  race.  He  could  make  a  shoe,  or  build  a  house,  or 
doctor  a  cow ;  but  it  never  seemed  to  him,  in  this  brief 
existence,  worth  the  while  to  do  any  of  these  things. 
He  was  an  excellent  angler,  but  he  rarely  fished ;  partly 
because  of  the  shortness  of  the  days,  partly  on  account 
of  the  uncertainty  of  bites,  but  principally  because  the 
trout-brooks  were  all  arranged  lengthwise,  and  ran  over 
so  much  ground.  But  no  man  liked  to  look  at  a  string 
of  trout  better  than  he  did ;  and  he  was  willing  to  sit 
down  in  a  sunny  place  and  talk  about  trout-fishing  half 
a  day  at  a  time ;  and  he  would  talk  pleasantly  and  well, 
too,  though  his  wife  might  be  continually  interrupting 
him  by  a  call  for  firewood. 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


449 


I  should  not  do  justice  to  his  own  idea  of  himself  if  I 
did  not  add  that  he  was  most  respectably  connected, 
and  that  he  had  a  justifiable  though  feeble  pride  in  his 
family.  It  helped  his  self-respect,  which  no  ignoble 
circumstance  could  destroy.  He  was  —  as  must  appear 
by  this  time  —  a  most  intelligent  man,  and  he  was  a 
well-informed  man.  That  is  to  say,  he  read  the  weekly 
newspapers  when  he  could  get  them ;  and  he  had  the 
average  country  information  about  Beecher,  and  Gree¬ 
ley,  and  the  Prussian  war  (“  Napoleon  is  gittin’  on’t, 
ain’t  he  ”)  and  the  general  prospect  of  the  election  cam¬ 
paigns.  Indeed,  he  was  warmly  —  or,  rather,  lukewarm¬ 
ly  —  interested  in  politics.  He  liked  to  talk  about  the 
“  inflated  currency  ” ;  and  it  seemed  plain  to  him  that 
his  condition  would  somehow  be  improved  if  we  could 
get  to  a  “  specie  basis.”  He  was,  in  fact,  a  little 
troubled  about  the  National  Debt;  it  seemed  to  press  on 
him  somehow,  while  his  own  never  did.  He  exhibited 
more  animation  over  the  affairs  of  the  government  than 
he  did  over  his  own  —  an  evidence  at  once  of  his  disin¬ 
terestedness  and  his  patriotism. 

He  had  been  an  old  Abolitionist,  and  was  strong  on 
the  rights  of  “  free  labor  ” ;  though  he  did  not  care  to 
exercise  his  privilege  much.  Of  course  he  had  the 
proper  contempt  for  the  “  poor  whites  ”  down  South.  I 
never  saw  a  person  with  more  correct  notions  on  such 
a  variety  of  subjects.  He  was  perfectly  willing  that 
churches  (being  himself  a  member),  and  Sunday-schools, 
and  missionary  enterprises  should  go  on.  In  fact,  I  do 
not  believe  he  ever  opposed  anything  in  his  life.  No  one 
was  more  willing  to  vote  town-taxes  and  road-repairs 
and  school-house  than  he.  If  you  could  call  him  spirited 
at  all,  he  was  public-spirited. 

And  with  all  this,  he  was  never  “  very  well  ” ;  he  had 
from  boyhood  “  enjoyed  poor  health.”  You  would  say 
he  was  not  a  man  who  would  ever  catch  anything  —  not 
even  an  epidemic ;  but  he  was  a  person  whom  diseases 
would  be  likely  to  overtake  —  even  the  slowest  of  slow 
fevers.  And  he  wasn’t  a  man  to  shake  off  anything. 
And  yet  sickness  seemed  to  trouble  him  no  more  than 
poverty.  He  was  not  discontented;  he  never  grumbled. 

Vol.  XXIII.— 29 


450 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  relished  a  “  spell  of  sickness  ’’ 
in  haying-time. 

An  admirably  balanced  man,  who  accepts  the  world 
as  it  is,  and  evidently  lives  on  the  experience  of  others. 
I  have  never  seen  a  man  with  less  envy  or  more  cheer¬ 
fulness,  or  so  contented,  with  as  little  reason  for  being 
so.  The  only  drawback  to  his  future  is  that  rest  beyond 
the  grave  will  not  be  much  change  for  him,  and  he  has 
no  works  to  follow  him. —  Backlog  Studies. 

A  BOY  ON  A  FARM. 

Say  what  you  will  about  the  general  usefulness  of  boys, 
it  is  my  impression  that  a  farm  without  a  boy  would 
very  soon  come  to  grief.  What  the  boy  does  is  the  life 
of  the  farm.  He  is  the  factotum,  always  in  demand, 
always  expected  to  do  the  thousand  indispensable  things 
that  nobody  else  will  do.  Upon  him  fall  all  the  odds 
and  ends,  the  most  difficult  things. 

After  everybody  else  is  through,  he  has  to  finish  up. 
His  work  is  like  a  woman’s, —  perpetually  waiting  on 
others.  Everybody  knows  how  much  easier  it  is  to  eat 
a  good  dinner  than  it  is  to  wash  the  dishes  afterwards. 
Consider  what  a  boy  on  a  farm  is  required  to  do ;  things 
that  must  be  done,  or  life  would  actually  stop. 

It  is  understood,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  is  to  do  all 
the  errands,  to  go  to  the  store,  to  the  post-office,  and 
to  carry  all  sorts  of  messages.  If  he  had  as  many  legs 
as  a  centiped,  they  would  tire  before  night.  His  two 
short  limbs  seem  to  him  entirely  inadequate  to  the  task. 
He  would  like  to  have  as  many  legs  as  a  wheel  has 
spokes,  and  rotate  about  in  the  same  way. 

This  he  sometimes  tries  to  do ;  and  the  people  who 
have  seen  him  “  turning  cart-wheels  ”  along  the  side  of 
the  road,  have  supposed  that  he  was  amusing  himself  and 
idling  his  time ;  he  was  only  trying  to  invent  a  new  mode 
of  locomotion,  so  that  he  could  economize  his  legs,  and 
do  his  errands  with  greater  dispatch. 

He  practices  standing  on  his  head,  in  order  to  accus¬ 
tom  himself  to  any  position.  Leap-frog  is  one  of  his 
methods  of  getting  over  the  ground  quickly.  He  would 


SUSAN  WARNER 


45  t 

willingly  go  an  errand  any  distance  if  he  could  leap¬ 
frog  it  with  a  few  other  boys. 

He  has  a  natural  genius  for  combining  pleasure  with 
business.  This  is  the  reason  why,  when  he  is  sent  to  the 
spring  for  a  pitcher  of  water,  he  is  absent  so  long;  for 
he  stops  to  poke  the  frog  that  sits  on  the  stone,  or,  if 
there  is  a  pen-stock,  to  put  his  hand  over  the  spout,  and 
squirt  the  water  a  little  while. 

He  is  the  one  who  spreads  the  grass  when  the  men 
have  cut  it ;  he  mows  it  away  in  the  barn ;  he  rides  the 
horse,  to  cultivate  the  corn,  up  and  down  the  hot,  weary 
rows;  he  picks  up  the  potatoes  when  they  are  dug;  he 
drives  the  cows  night  and  morning;  he  brings  wood  and 
water,  and  splits  kindling;  he  gets  up  the  horse,  and  puts 
out'  the  horse;  whether  he  is  in  the  house  or  out  of  it, 
there  is  always  something  for  him  to  do. 

Just  before  the  school  in  winter  he  shovels  paths;  in 
summer  he  turns  the  grindstone.  He  knows  where  there 
are  lots  of  wintergreens  and  sweet-flags,  but,  instead  of 
going  for  them,  he  is  to  stay  in  doors  and  pare  apples, 
and  stone  raisins,  and  pound  something  in  a  mortar. 
And  yet,  with  his  mind  full  of  schemes  of  what  he  would 
like  to  do,  and  his  hands  full  of  occupations,  he  is  an 
idle  boy,  who  has  nothing  to  busy  himself  with  but  school 
and  chores ! 

He  would  gladly  do  all  the  work  if  somebody  else 
would  do  the  chores,  he  thinks;  and  yet  I  doubt  if  any 
boy  ever  amounted  to  anything  in  the  world,  or  was  of 
much  use  as  a  man,  who  did  not  enjoy  the  advantages  of 
a  liberal  education  in  the  way  of  chores. 


ARNER,  Susan,  an  American  novelist ;  born 
at  New  York,  July  n,  1819;  died  at  High¬ 
land  Falls,  N.  Y.,  March  17,  1885.  Her  first 
novel,  The  Wide ,  Wide  World,  was  published  in  1851, 
under  the  pseudonym  of  “  Elizabeth  Wetherell.”  Her 


452 


SUSAN  WARNER 


other  works  are  Queechy  (1852);  The  Law  and  the 
Testimony  (1853)  ;  The  Hills  of  the  Shatemuc 
(1856)  The  Old  Helmet  (1863);  Melbourne  House 
(1864)  ;  Daisy  (1868)  ;  A  Story  of  Small  Beginnings 
(1872);  the  Say  and  Do  series  (1875);  Diana 
(1876);  My  Desire  (1877);  The  Broken  Walls  of 
Jerusalem  (1878);  The  Kingdom  of  Judah  (1878); 
The  End  of  a  Coil  (1880)  ;  The  Letter  of  Credit 
(1881);  Stephen ,  M.D.  (1883).  In  conjunction  with 
her  sister,  Anna  Bartlett,  she  wrote  Say  and  Seal 
(i860);  Ellen  Montgomery’s  Book-Shelf  (1863-69); 
Books  of  Blessing  (1868)  ;  Wych-Hazel  (1876). 

AUTUMN  NUTS  AND  LEAVES. 

In  a  hollow,  rather  a  deep  hollow  —  behind  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  as  Fleda  had  said,  they  came  at  last  to  a 
noble  group  of  large  hickory-trees,  with  one  or  two 
chestnuts  standing  in  attendance  on  the  outskirts;  and 
also,  as  Fleda  had  said,  or  hoped,  the  place  was  so  far 
from  convenient  access  that  nobody  had  visited  them ; 
they  were  thick  hung  with  fruit.  If  the  spirit  of  the 
game  had  been  wanting  or  failing  in  Mr.  Carleton,  it 
must  have  been  roused  again  into  full  life  at  the  joyous 
heartiness  of  Fleda’s  exclamations.  At  any  rate,  no  boy 
could  have  taken  to  the  business  better.  He  cut,  with 
her  permission,  a  long,  stout  pole  in  the  woods ;  and 
swinging  himself  lightly  into  one  of  the  trees,  showed 
that  he  was  master  of  the  art  of  whipping  them.  Fleda 
was  delighted,  but  not  surprised;  for  from  the  first  mo¬ 
ment  of  Mr.  Carleton’s  proposing  to  go  with  her  she  had 
been  privately  sure  that  he  would  not  prove  an  inactive 
or  inefficient  ally.  By  whatever  slight  tokens  she  might 
read  this,  in  whatever  fine  characters  of  the  eye  or  speech 
or  manner,  she  knew  it;  and  knew  it  just  as  well  before 
they  reached  the  hickory-trees  as  she  did  afterward. 

When  one  of  the  trees  was  well  stripped,  the  young 
gentleman  mounted  into  another,  while  Fleda  set  her¬ 
self  to  hull  and  gather  up  the  nuts  under  the  one  first 


SUSAN  WARNER 


453 


beaten.  She  could  make  but  little  headway,  however, 
compared  with  her  companion ;  the  nuts  fell  a  great 
deal  faster  than  she  could  put  them  in  her  basket.  The 
trees  were  heavy  laden,  and  Mr.  Carleton  seemed  deter¬ 
mined  to  have  the  whole  crop ;  from  the  second  tree 
he  went  to  the  third.  Fleda  was  bewildered  with  her 
happiness ;  this  was  doing  business  in  style.  She  tried 
to  calculate  what  the  whole  quantity  would  be,  but  it 
went  beyond  her;  one  basketful  would  not  take  it,  nor 
two,  nor  three.  “  It  wouldn’t  begin  to,”  said  Fleda  to 
herself.  She  went  on  hulling  and  gathering  with  all  pos¬ 
sible  industry. 

After  the  third  tree  was  finished,  Mr.  Carleton  threw 
down  his  pole,  and  resting  himself  upon  the  ground  at 
the  foot,  told  Fleda  he  would  wait  a  few  moments  before 
he  began  again.  Fleda  thereupon  let  off  her  work,  too, 
and  going  for  her  little  tin  pail  presently  offered  it  to 
him,  temptingly  stocked  with  pieces  of  apple-pie.  When 
he  had  smilingly  taken  one,  she  next  brought  him  a  sheet 
of  white  paper  with  slices  of  young  cheese. 

“  No,  thank  you,”  said  he. 

“  Cheese  is  very  good  with  apple-pie,”  said  Fleda,  com- 

petently. 

±  - 

“Is  it?”  said  he,  laughing.  “Well,  upon  that,  I  think 
you  would  teach  me  a  good  many  things,  Miss  Fleda,  if 
I  were  to  stay  here  long  enough.” 

“  I  wish  you  would  stay  and  try,  sir,”  said  Fleda,  who 
did  not  know  exactly  what  to  make  of  the  shade  of 
seriousness  which  crossed  his  face.  It  was  gone  almost 
instantly. 

“  I  think  anything  is  better  eaten  out  in  the  woods  than 
it  is  at  home,”  said  Fleda. 

“  Well,  I  don’t  know,”  said  her  friend.  “  I  have  no 
doubt  that  this  is  the  case  with  cheese  and  apple-pie, 
and  especially  under  hickory-trees  which  one  has  been 
contending  with  pretty  sharply.  If  a  touch  of  your 
wand,  Fairy,  could  transform  one  of  these  shells  into  a 
p-oblet  of  Lafitte  or  Amontillado  we  should  have  nothing 
to  wish  for.” 

“  Amontillado  ”  was  unintelligible  to  Fleda,  but  “  gob¬ 
let  ”  was  intelligible. 


454 


SUSAN  WARNER 


“  I  am  sorry,”  she  said,  “  I  don’t  know  where  there  is 
any  spring  up  here ;  but  we  shall  come  to  one  going 
down  the  mountain.” 

“  Do  you  know  where  all  the  springs  are  ?  ” 

“  No,  not  all,  I  suppose,”  said  Fleda,  “  but  I  know  a 
good  many.  I  have  gone  about  through  the  woods  so 
much,  and  I  always  look  for  the  springs.”  .  .  . 

They  descended  the  mountain  now  with  hasty  step, 
for  the  day  was  wearing  well  on.  At'  the  spot  where  he 
had  stood  so  long  when  they  went  up,  Mr.  Carleton 
paused  again  for  a  minute.  In  mountain  scenery  every 
hour  makes  a  change.  The  sun  was  lower  now,  and  the 
lights  and  shadows  more  strongly  contrasted ;  the  sky 
of  a  yet  calmer  blue,  cool  and  clear  toward  the  horizon. 
The  scene  said  still  the  same  thing  it  had  said  a  few 
hours  before,  with  a  touch  more  of  sadness ;  it  seemed 
to  whisper,  “  All  things  have  an  end ;  thy  time  may 
not  be  forever ;  do  what  thou  wouldst  do ;  ‘  while  ye  have 
light,  believe  in  the  light  that  ye  may  be  children  of  the 
light.’  ” 

Whether  Mr.  Carleton  read  it  so  or  not,  he  stood  for  a 
minute  motionless,  and  went  down  the  mountain  looking 
so  grave  that  Fleda  did  not  venture  to  speak  to  him  till 
they  reached  the  neighborhood  of  the  spring. 

“What  are  you  searching  for,  Miss  Fleda?”  said  her 
friend. 

She  was  making  a  busy  quest  here  and  there  by  the 
side  of  the  little  stream. 

“  I  was  looking  to  see  if  I  could  find  a  mullein-leaf,” 
said  Fleda. 

“A  mullein-leaf?  What  do  you  want  it  for?” 

“  I  want  it  to  make  a  drinking-cup  of,”  said  Fleda,  her 
intent  bright  eyes  peering  keenly  about  in  every  direc¬ 
tion. 

“  A  mullein-leaf !  that  is  too  rough ;  one  of  these 
golden  leaves  —  what  are  they  —  will  do  better,  won’t 
it?” 

“  That  is  hickory,”  said  Fleda.  “  No ;  the  mullein- 
leaf  is  the  best,  because  it  holds  the  water  so  nicely. 
Here  it  is.” 


JOHN  BYRNE  LEICESTER  WARREN 


455 


And  folding  up  one  of  the  largest  leaves  into  a  most 
artist-like  cup,  she  presented  it  to  Mr.  Carleton. 

“  For  me  was  all  that  trouble?  ”  said  he.  “  I  don’t  de¬ 
serve  it.” 

“  You  wanted  something,  sir,”  said  Fleda.  “  The  wa¬ 
ter  is  very  cold  and  nice.” 

He  stooped  to  the  bright  little  stream,  and  filled  his 
rural  goblet  several  times. 

“  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  Fairy  for  my 
cup-bearer  before,”  said  he.  “  That  was  better  than  any¬ 
thing  Bordeaux  or  Xeres  ever  sent  forth.” 

He  seemed  to  have  swallowed  his  seriousness,  or 
thrown  it  away  with  the  mullein-leaf. 

“  This  is  the  best  spring  in  all  grandpa’s  ground,”  said 
Fleda.  “  The  water  is  as  good  as  can  be.” 

“How  came  you  to  be  such  a  wood  and  water  spirit? 
You  must  live  out  of  doors.  Do  the  trees  ever  talk  to 
you?  I  sometimes  think  they  do  to  me.” 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  think  I  talk  to  them,”  said  Fleda. 

“  It’s  the  same  thing,”  said  her  companion,  smiling. 
“  Such  beautiful  woods  !  ” 

“Were  you  never  in  the  country  in  the  fall,  sir?” 

“Not  here;  in  my  own  country  often  enough.  But 
the  woods  in  England  do  not  put  on  such  a  gay  face, 
Miss  Fleda,  when  they  are  going  to  be  stripped  of  their 
summer  dress ;  they  look  sober  upon  it ;  the  leaves 
wither  and  grow  brown  and  the  woods  have  a  dull  russet 
color.  Your  trees  are  true  Yankees  —  they  ‘never  say 
die  !’  ” —  Queechy. 


JARREN,  John  Byrne  Leicester,  third  Baron 
De  Tabley,  an  English  poet;  born  at  Tabley 
House,  Cheshire,  April  26,  1835 ;  died  at 
Ryde,  Isle  of  Wight,  November  22,  1895.  Fie  was 
educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  was  called  to  the  bar, 
and  after  a  short  diplomatic  experience,  devoted  him- 


JOHN  BYRNE  LEICESTER  WARREN 


456 

self  to  literature.  His  life  was  passed  in  seclusion, 
although  he  numbered  Tennyson,  Browning,  Glad¬ 
stone,  and  other  eminent  men  of  his  day,  among  his 
personal  friends.  His  poetry  reveals  much  depth  of 
thought  and  appeals  to  the  cultivated  few,  rather  than 
the  general  public.  His  first  work  appeared  with  the 
signature  “  G.  F.  Preston”  (1858-62),  but  later  he 
used  the  pseudonym  “  William  Lancaster.”  After 
1873  his  work  appeared  with  his  own  name,  John 
Leicester  Warren.  In  1893  he  published  Poems,  Dra¬ 
matic  and  Lyrical ,  by  Lord  De  Tabley,  and  in  1895  a 
second  series  appeared.  Both  met  with  qualified  suc¬ 
cess.  Among  his  other  volumes  of  verse  are  Phil- 
octetes  (1867);  Orestes  (1868);  Prceterita  (1870); 
Rehearsals  (1870);  Searching  the  Net  (1873).  He 
wrote  two  novels,  A  Screw  Loose  (1868),  and  Ropes 
of  Sand  (1869). 

A  SONG  OF  FAITH  FORESWORN. 

Take  back  your  suit. 

It  came  when  I  was  weary  and  distraught 

With  hunger.  Could  I  guess  the  fruit  you  brought? 

I  ate  in  mere  desire  of  any  food, 

Nibbled  its  edges,  and  nowhere  found  it  good. 

Take  back  your  suit. 

Take  back  your  love. 

It  is  a  bird  poach’d  from  my  neighbor’s  wood : 

Its  wings  are  wet  with  tears,  its  beak  with  blood. 

’Tis  a  strange  fowl  with  feathers  like  a  crow: 

Death’s  raven,  it  may  be,  for  all  we  know. 

Take  back  your  love. 

Take  back  your  gifts. 

False  is  the  hand  that  gave  them ;  and  the  mind 
That  plann’d  them,  as  a  hawk  spread  in  the  wind 
To  poise  and  snatch  the  trembling  mouse  below, 


JOHN  BYRNE  LEICESTER  WARREN 


45  7 


To  ruin  where  it  dares  —  and  then  to  go. 

Take  back  your  gifts. 

Take  back  your  vows. 

Elsewhere  you  trimnTd  and  taught  these  lamps  to  burn; 
You  bring  them  stale  and  dim  to  serve  my  turn. 

You  lit  those  candles  in  another  shrine, 

Gutter'd  and  cold  you  offer  them  on  mine 
Take  back  your  vows 

Take  back  your  words. 

What  is  your  love?  Leaves  on  a  woodland  plain, 

Where  some  are  running  and  where  some  remain. 

What  is  your  faith?  Straws  on  a  mountain  height, 
Dancing  like  demons  on  Walpurgis  night. 

Take  back  your  words. 

Take  back  your  lies. 

Have  them  again :  they  wore  a  rainbow  face, 

Hollow  with  sin  and  leprous  with  disgrace ; 

Their  tongue  was  like  a  mellow  turret  bell 
To  toll  hearts  burning  into  wide-lipp’d  hell  — 

Take  back  your  lies. 

Take  back  your  kiss. 

Shall  I  be  meek,  and  lend  my  lips  again 
To  let  this  adder  daub  them  with  his  stain? 

Shall  I  turn  cheek  to  answer,  when  I  hate? 

You  kiss  like  Judas  at  the  garden  gate  ! 

Take  back  your  kiss 

Take  back  delight 

A  paper  boat  launch’d  on  a  heaving  pool 
To  please  a  child,  and  folded  by  a  fool; 

The  wild  elms  roar’d ;  it  sail’d  —  a  yard  or  more. 

Out  went  our  ship,  but  never  came  to  shore. 

Take  back  delight. 

Take  back  your  wreath. 

Has  it  done  service  on  a  fairer  brow? 


45§ 


SAMUEL  WARREN 


Fresh,  was  it  folded  round  her  bosom  snow? 
Her  cast-off  weed  my  breast  will  never  wear ; 
Your  word  is  “Love  me;”  my  reply,  “Despair!” 
Take  back  your  wreath. 


■  ARREN,  Samuel,  an  English  novelist;  born 
in  Denbighshire,  Wales,  May  23,  1807;  died 
at  London,  July  29,  1877.  He  began  the 
study  of  medicine  in  Edinburgh,  but  entered  Lincoln’s 
Inn,  London,  as  a  student  of  law ;  was  called  to  the  bar 
in  1837,  and  made  a  queen’s  counsel  in  1851.  In  1854 
he  became  Recorder  of  Hull,  retaining  that  position 
until  1874.  In  1856  he  was  returned  to  Parliament 
for  Medhurst,  but  resigned  his  seat  in  1859  upon  ac¬ 
cepting  the  appointment  of  one  of  the  two  Masters 
in  Lunacy.  His  first  notable  work  was  the  Passages 
from  the  Diary  of  a  Late  Physician ,  which  appeared 
in  Blackwood's  Magazine  in  1830-31.  These  narra¬ 
tives  were  told  with  such  apparent  verisimilitude  that 
they  were  generally  supposed  to  be  records  of  the 
actual  experience  of  the  author,  and  it  is  not  easy  to 
believe  but  that  some  of  them  at  least  had  a  founda¬ 
tion  in  fact.  They  certainly  bear  traces  of  the  early 
medical  studies  of  the  young  lawyer,  and  are  of  higher 
value  than  any  of  his  later  writings.  The  long  novel, 
Ten  Thousand  a  Year  (1839),  contains  many  striking 
delineations  of  legal  and  aristocratic  life,  but  is  marred 
by  broad  caricature  of  the  lower  classes.  The  shorter 
novel,  Now  and  Then  (1847),  on  which  he  prided 
himself,  met  with  less  favor  than  it  deserved,  and  was 
his  last  work  of  fiction.  In  1851,  upon  occasion  of  the 


SAMUEL  WARREN 


459 


great  exhibition  in  London,  he  published  a  rhapsodical 
apologue,  The  Lily  and  the  Bee,  of  very  slight  merit. 
He  also  published  at  various  times  many  works  upon 
legal  and  social  topics.  Among  these  are  Introduction 
to  Law  Studies  (1835)  ;  an  annotated  edition  of  a  por¬ 
tion  of  Blackstone’s  Commentaries  ( 1836)  ;  The  Opium 
Question  (1840);  Moral,  Social  and  Professional 
Duties  of  Attorneys  and  Solicitors  (1848)  ;  The  In¬ 
tellectual  and  Moral  Improvement  of  the  Present  Age 
(1853);  Labor,  Its  Rights,  Difficulties,  Dignity,  and 
Consolations  (1856). 

A  SLIGHT  COLD. 

Consider  a  “  Slight  Cold  ”  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a 
chill,  caught  by  a  sudden  contact  with  your  grave ;  or 
as  occasioned  by  the  damp  finger  of  Death  laid  upon 
you,  as  it  were,  to  mark  you  for  his,  in  passing  to  the 
more  immediate  object  of  his  commission.  Let  this  be 
called  “  croaking,”  and  laughed  at  as  such  by  those  who 
are  “  awearied  of  the  painful  round  of  life,”  and  are  on 
the  lookout  for  their  dismissal  from  it ;  but  let  it  be 
learnt  by  heart,  and  be  remembered  as  having  the  force 
and  truth  of  gospel  by  all  those  who  would  “  measure 
out  their  span  upon  the  earth,”  and  are  conscious  of  any 
constitutional  flaw  or  feebleness ;  who  are  distinguished 
by  any  such  tendency  deathward  as  long  necks,  narrow 
chicken-chests,  fair  complexions,  exquisite  sympathy 
with  atmospheric  variations;  or,  in  short,  exhibit  any 
symptoms  of  an  asthmatic  or  consumptive  character  — 
if  they  choose  to  neglect  a  Slight  Cold. 

Let  not  those  complain  of  being  bitten  by  a  reptile 
which  they  have  cherished  to  maturity  in  their  very 
bosoms,  when  they  might  have  crushed  it  in  the  egg ! 
Now  if  we  call  a  “  Slight  Cold,”  the  egg,  and  Pleurisy, 
Inflammation  of  the  Lungs,  Asthma,  Consumption,  the 
venomous  reptile,  the  matter  will  be  no  more  than  cor¬ 
rectly  figured.  There  are  many  ways  in  which  this 
“  egg  ”  may  be  deposited  and  hatched :  Going  suddenly, 
slightly  clad,  from  a  heated  into  a  cold  atmosphere  — ■ 


JOSEPH  WARTON 


460 

especially  if  you  can  contrive  to  be  in  a  state  of  per¬ 
spiration  ;  sitting  or  standing  in  a  draught,  however  slight 
—  it  is  the  breath  of  Death,  reader,  and  laden  with  the 
vapors  of  the  grave.  Lying  in  damp  beds  —  for  there 
his  cold  arms  shall  embrace  you ;  continuing  in  wet 
clothing,  and  neglecting  wet  feet  —  these,  and  a  hundred 
others,  are  some  of  the  ways  in  which  you  may,  slowly, 
imperceptibly,  but  surely,  cherish  the  creature  that  shall, 
at  last  creep  inextricably  inward,  and  lie  coiled  about 
your  vitals.  Once  more  —  again  —  again  —  again  —  I 
would  say,  Attend  to  this  all  ye  who  think  it  a  small 
matter  to  neglect  a  Slight  Cold. —  Passages  from  the 
Diary  of  a  Late  Physician. 


j^ARTON,  Joseph,  an  English  critic  and  poet; 
born  at  Dunsford,  Surrey,  in  1722;  died  at 
Wickham  in  1800.  He  was  educated  at  Win¬ 


chester  and  Oxford.  He  was  successively  curate  at 
Basingstoke,  rector  of  Winslade,  then  of  Tunworth, 
master  at  Winchester,  prebendary  of  St.  Paul’s  and  of 
Winchester.  Besides  translations  of  Virgil,  he  wrote 
an  Essay  on  the  Writings  and  Genius  of  Pope,  and 
numerous  critical  papers  in  The  Adventurer ;  he  also 
edited  the  works  of  Pope  and  of  Dryden.  His  Odes 
on  Various  Subjects  (1746)  show  how  slight  a  foun¬ 
dation  was  required  in  his  day  for  a  poetic  reputation. 
The  following  selection  from  what  is  regarded  as  the 
best  of  his  odes  illustrates  his  degree  of  pictorial  abil¬ 
ity,  and  also  the  versifying  affectations  that  were  then 
termed  “  elegant.” 


TO  FANCY. 


O  lover  of  the  desert,  hail ! 

Say  in  what  deep  and  pathless  vale, 


JOSEPH  WART  ON 


461 


Or  on  what  hoary  mountain’s  side, 

’Midst  falls  of  water,  you  reside; 

’Midst  broken  rocks  a  rugged  scene, 

With  green  and  grassy  dales  between; 
’Midst  forests  dark  of  aged  oak, 

Ne’er  echoing  with  the  woodman’s  stroke, 
Where  never  human  heart  appeared, 

Nor  e’er  one  straw-roofed  cot  was  reared, 
Where  Nature  seemed  to  sit  alone, 
Majestic  on  a  craggy  throne; 

Tell  me  the  path,  sweet  wand’rer,  tell, 

To  thy  unknown,  sequestered  cell, 

Where  woodbines  cluster  round  the  door, 
Where  shells  and  moss  o’erlay  the  floor. 
And  on  whose  top  a  hawthorn  blows, 
Amid  whose  thickly  woven  boughs 
Some  nightingale  still  builds  her  nest. 
Each  evening  warbling  thee  to  rest; 

Then  lay  me  by  the  haunted  stream, 

Rapt  in  some  wild,  poetic  dream, 

In  converse  while  methinks  I  rove 
With  Spenser  through  a  fairy  grove; 

Till  suddenly  awaked,  I  hear 
Strange  whispered  music  in  my  ear, 

And  my  glad  soul  in  bliss  is  drowned 
By  the  sweetly  soothing  sound.  .  .  . 

Yet  not  these  flowery  fields  of  joy 
Can  long  my  pensive  mind  employ ; 

Haste,  Fancy,  from  these  scenes  of  folly, 
To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 

Goddess  of  the  tearful  eye, 

That  loves  to  fold  her  arms  and  sigh ! 

Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 
To  charnels  and  the  house  of  woe, 

To  Gothic  churches,  vaults,  and  tombs, 
Where  each  sad  night  some  virgin  comes 
With  throbbing  breast,  and  faded  cheek. 
Her  promised  bridegroom’s  urn  to  seek; 
Or  to  some  abbey’s  mouldering  towers, 
Where  to  avoid  cold  winter’s  showers, 
The  naked  beggar  shivering  lies 


462 


THOMAS  WARTON 


Whilst  whistling  tempest's  round  her  rise, 

And  trembles  lest  the  tottering  wall 
Should  on  her  sleeping  infants  fall. 

Now  let  us  louder  strike  the  lyre, 

For  my  heart  glows  with  martial  fire; 

I  feel,  I  feel,  with  sudden  heat, 

My  big,  tumultuous  bosom  beat ! 

The  trumpet’s  clangors  pierce  my  ear, 

A  thousand  widows’  shrieks  I  hear ; 

“  Give  me  another  horse,”  I  cry, 

Lo !  the  base  Gallic  squadrons  fly.  .  .  . 

When  young-eyed  Spring  profusely  throws 
From  her  green  lap  the  pink  and  rose; 

When  the  soft  turtle  of  the  dale 
To  summer- tells  her  tender  tale; 

When  Autumn  cooling  caverns  seeks, 

And  stains  with  wine  his  jolly  cheeks; 
When  Winter,  like  poor  pilgrim  old, 

Shakes  his  silver  beard  with  cold  — 

At  every  season  let  my  ear 

Thy  solemn  whispers,  Fancy,  hear. 


ARTON,  Thomas,  an  English  essayist;  born 
at  Basingstoke  in  1728;  died  May  21,  1790, 
He  was  a  son  of  Thomas  Warton,  a  profes¬ 
sor  of  poetry  at  Oxford,  and  a  brother  of  Joseph,  and 
was  himself  appointed  to  the  same  professorship  in 
1757,  also  occupying  a  curacy  and  vicarship.  His 
great  work  was  a  learned  History  of  English  Poetry, 
from  the  Eleventh  to  the  Seventeenth  Century  (1774- 
78).  Besides  this,  he  wrote  an  elaborate  essay  on 
Spenser’s  Faerie  Queene,  and  edited  the  minor  poems 
of  Milton,  with  abundant  notes.  He  enjoyed  the  dis¬ 
tinction  of  being  poet-laureate. 


THOMAS  WARTON 


463 


Of  his  History  of  English  Poetry,  Sir  Walter  Scott 
says :  “  A  work  of  great  size,  and,  poetically  speak¬ 

ing,  of  great  interest,  from  the  perusal  of  which  we 
rise,  our  fancy  delighted  with  beautiful  imagery  and 
with  the  happy  analysis  of  ancient  tale  and  song,  but 
certainly  with  very  vague  ideas  of  the  history  of 
English  poetry.  The  error  seems  to  lie  in  a  total  neg¬ 
lect  of  plan  and  system ;  for,  delighted  with  every 
interesting  topic  which  occurred,  the  historical  poet 
pursued  it  to  its  utmost  verge,  without  considering 
that  these  digressions,  however  beautiful  and  interest¬ 
ing  in  themselves,  abstracted  alike  his  own  attention 
and  that  of  the  reader  from  the  professed  purpose  of 
his  book.  Accordingly  Warton’s  History  of  English 
Poetry  has  remained,  and  will  always  remain,  an  im¬ 
mense  commonplace  book  of  memoirs  to  serve  for 
such  an  history.” 

ON  REVISITING  THE  RIVER  LODDON. 

Ah  !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run 

Since  first  I  trod  thy  banks,  with  alders  crowned, 

And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  ground, 
Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun  — 

When  first  my  muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 

While  pensive  memory  traces  back  the  round 
Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between ; 

Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow,  marks  the  scene. 

Sweet  native  stream !  those  skies  and  suns  so  pure, 

No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road ! 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure 
Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed 
From  youth’s  gay  dawn  to  manhood’s  prime  mature 
Nor  with  the  muse’s  laurel  unbestowed. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  DUGDALE’s  MONASTICON. 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 

By  Fancy’s  genuine  feelings  unbeguiled 


464 


THOMAS  WARTON 


Of  painful  pedantry,  the  poring  child, 

Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  page, 

Now  sunk  by  time,  and  Henry’s  fiercer  rage. 

Think’st  thou  the  warbling  muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours?  Ingenious  views  engage 
His  thoughts  on  themes  unclassic,  falsely  styled, 
Intent.  While  cloistered  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 

Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 

Not  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

ANCIENT  ENGLISH  ROMANCE. 

The  most  ancient  English  metrical  romance  which  I 
can  discover  is  entitled  the  Geste  of  King  Horne.  It  was 
evidently  written  after  the  crusades  had  begun,  is  men¬ 
tioned  by  Chaucer,  and  probably  still  remains  in  its 
original  state.  I  will  first  give  the  substance  of  the 
story,  and  afterward  add  some  specimens  of  the  com¬ 
position.  But  I  must  premise,  that  this  story  occurs  in 
very  old  French  metre  in  the  MSS.  of  the  British  Mu¬ 
seum,  so  that  probably  it  is  a  translation :  a  circum¬ 
stance  which  will  throw  light  on  an  argument  pursued 
hereafter,  proving  that  most  of  our  metrical  romances 
are  translated  from  the  French.  [But  notice  Saxon 
names.] 

Mury,  King  of  the  Saracens,  lands  in  the  kingdom  of 
Suddene,  where  he  kills  the  king  named  Allof.  The 
queen,  Godylt,  escapes ;  but  Mury  seizes  on  her  son 
Horne,  a  beautiful  youth  aged  fifteen  years,  and  puts 
him  into  a  galley,  with  two  of  his  playfellows,  Achulph 
and  Fykenyld:  the  vessel  being  driven  on  the  coast  of 
the  kingdom  of  Westnesse,  the  young  prince  is  found 
by  Aylmar,  king  of  that  country,  brought  to  court,  and 
delivered  by  Athelbrus  his  steward,  to  be  educated  in 
hawking,  harping,  tilting,  and  other  courtly  accomplish¬ 
ment's.  Here  the  princess  Rymenild  falls  in  love  with 
him,  declares  her  passion,  and  is  betrothed.  Horne,  in 
consequence  of  this  engagement,  leaves  the  princess  for 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON  465 


seven  years,  to  demonstrate,  according  to  the  ritual  of 
chivalry,  that  by  seeking  and  accomplishing  dangerous 
enterprises  he  deserved  her  affection.  He  proves  a  most 
valorous  and  invincible  knight;  and  at  the  end  of  seven 
years,  having  killed  King  Mury,  recovered  his  father’s 
kingdom,  and  achieved  many  signal  exploits,  recovers 
the  Princess  Rymenild  from  the  hands  of  his  treacherous 
knight  and  companion  Fykenyld.  .  .  . 

The  poem  itself  begins  and  proceeds  thus : 

Alie  hes  ben  blythe,  that  to  my  songe  ylythe : 

A  songe  yet  ulle  ou  singe  of  Allof  the  god  kynge, 

Kynge  he  was  by  weste  the  whiles  hit  y  leste ; 

And  Godylt  his  gode  quene,  no  feyrore  myht'e  bene, 

And  huere  sone  hibte  Horne,  feyrore  childe  ne  myht  be 
borne : 

For  reyne  ne  myhte  by  ryne  ne  sonne  myhte  shine 
Feyror  childe  than  he  was,  bryht  so  ever  eny  glas, 

So  whyte  so  eny  lilye  floure,  so  rose  red  was  his  colour ; 
He  was  feyre  ant  eke  bold,  and  of  fyfteene  wynter  old, 
This  non  his  yliche  in  none  kinges  ryche. 

—  History  of  English  Poetry. 


ASHINGTON,  Booker  Taliaferro,  an 
American  educator ;  born  a  slave  in  Hale’s 
Ford,  Va.,  about  1859.  After  the  Civil  War 
he  removed  with  his  mother  to  West  ATirginia,  where 
he  worked  in  the  mines,  attending  school  in  the  winter. 
In  1875  was  graduated  with  honors  at  the  Hamp¬ 
ton  Institute,  Va. ;  was  a  teacher  there  till  in  1881, 
when  he  was  elected  by  the  State  authorities  of  Ala¬ 
bama  principal  of  the  Tuskegee  Normal  and  Industrial 
Institute,  which  he  organized  and  built  up.  He  re¬ 
ceived  the  decree  of  A.  M.  from  Howard  Universitv 
in  1896;  was  a  speaker  on  educational  and  racial  sub- 
Vol.  XXIII.— 30 


466  BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


jects,  and  wrote:  Sowing  and  Reaping  (1900);  Up 
From  Slavery  (1901)  ;  Character  Building  (190 2)  ; 
The  Negro  Problem  (1903). 

The  following  paper  on  “  Negro  Education  ”  was 
written  by  Mr.  Washington  for  the  Encyclopedia 
Americana. 


NEGRO  EDUCATION. 

The  negro  race  in  America  has  grown  from  twenty 
native  Africans  imported  into  the  country  as  chattel 
slaves  in  1619,  to  10,000,000  of  free  men,  entitled  under 
the  Federal  constitutions  to  all  the  rights,  privileges  and 
immunities  of  citizens  of  the  United  States,  in  1904.  The 
great  task  of  educating  these  millions  has  been  a  phe¬ 
nomenal  undertaking,  and  the  results  have  been  still  more 
phenomenal. 

It  was  the  general  policy  of  the  sixteen  slave-holding 
States  of  the  South  to  prohibit  by  fine,  imprisonment 
and  whipping  the  giving  of  instruction  to  blacks,  mulat- 
toes  or  other  descendants  of  African  parentage,  and  this 
prohibition  was  extended  in  most  of  the  slave  States  to 
“  free  persons  of  color  ”  as  well  as  to  slaves. 

But  it  has  been  the  general  policy  of  the  slave  system 
in  all  ages  to  keep  the  slaves  in  ignorance  as  the  safest 
way  to  perpetuate  itself.  In  this  respect  the  American 
slave  system  followed  the  beaten  path  of  history,  and 
thus  furnished  the  strongest  argument  for  it's  own  un¬ 
doing.  The  ignorance  of  the  slave  is  always'  the  best 
safeguard  of  the  system  of  slavery,  but  no  such  theory 
could  long  prevail  in  a  democracy  like  ours.  There  were 
able  and  distinguished  men  among  the  slaveholders  them¬ 
selves  who  rebelled  against  the  system  and  the  theories 
by  which  it  sought  to  perpetuate  itself.  Such  southern 
men  as  Thomas  Jefferson,  Henry  Clay,  Cassius  M.  Clay, 
and  hundreds  of  others,  never  became  reconciled  to  the 
system  of  slavery  and  the  degradation  of  the  slave. 

The  general  character  of  the  laws  enacted  on  this 
subject  by  the  slave  states  can  be  inferred  from  the  law, 
passed  by  the  state  of  Georgia  in  1829. 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON  .  46/ 


There  were  no  laws  in  the  slave  code  more  rigidly 
enforced  than  those  prohibiting  the  giving  or  receiving- 
instruction  by  the  slaves  or  “  free  persons  of  color.”  And 
yet  in  nearly  all  the  large  cities  of  the  southern  states  — 
notably  in  Charleston,  Savannah  and  New  Orleans  — 
there  were  what  were  styled  “  clandestine  schools,”  where 
such  instruction  was  given.  Those  who  maintained  them 
and  those  who  patronized  them  were  constantly  watched 
and  often  apprehended  and  “  beaten  with  many  stripes,” 
but  the  good  work  went  on  in  some  sort  until  i860,  when 
the  war  that  was  to  be  “  the  beginning  of  the  end  ”  of 
the  whole  system  of  slavery,  put  a  stop  to  all  such  efforts 
for  the  time  being. 

There  is  no  more  heroic  chapter  in  history  than  that 
which  deals  with  the  persistence  with  which  the  slaves 
and  “  free  persons  of  color  ”  in  the  slave  States  sought 
and  secured  a  measure  of  intellectual  and  religious  in- 
struction ;  for  they  were  prohibited  from  preaching  or 
receiving  religious  instruction  except  by  written  permit 
and  when  at  least  five  “  white  men  of  good  reputation  ” 
were  present  at  such  gatherings.  But  there  has  never 
been  a  time  in  the  history  of  mankind  when  repressive 
laws,  however  rigidly  enforced,  could  shut  out  the  light 
of  knowledge  or  prevent  communion  with  the  Supreme 
Ruler  of  the  universe  by  such  as  were  determined  to 
share  these  noblest  of  human  enjoyments.  True,  only  a 
few,  a  very  few,  of  the  blacks  and  “  free  people  of  color  ” 
were  able  to  secure  any  appreciable  mental  instruction ; 
but  the  fact  that  so  many  of  them  sought  it  diligently  in 
defiance  of  fines  and  penalties  is  worthy  of  notice  and 
goes  far  towards  explaining  the  extraordinary  manner 
in  which  those  people  crowded  into  every  school  that 
was  opened  to  them  after  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  had 
swept  away  the  slave  system  and  placed  all  the  children 
of  the  republic  upon  equality  under  the  Federal  constitu¬ 
tion.  Nor  was  this  yearning  for  mental  instruction  spas¬ 
modic  ;  thirty-four  years  after  the  war  all  the  school 
houses,  of  whatever  sort,  opened  for  these  people,  are  as 
crowded  with  anxious  pupils  as  were  the  modest  log 
school  houses  planted  by  New  England  men  and  women 
while  the  soldiers  of  the  disbanded  armies  of  the  north 


468  BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


and  south  were  turning  their  faces  homeward.  A  race 
so  imbued  with  a  love  of  knowledge,  displayed  in  slavery 
and  become  the  marvel  of  mankind  in  freedom,  must  have 
reserved  for  it  some  honorable  place  in  our  national  life 
which  God  has  not  made  plain  to  our  understanding. 

In  the  free  states  of  the  north  very  little  more  pro¬ 
vision  was  made,  as  late  as  1830,  by  the  state  for  the 
education  of  the  Negro  population  than  by  the  slave 
states.  There  was  no  prohibition  by  the  state  against 
such  instruction,  but  there  was  a  very  pronounced  pop¬ 
ular  sentiment  against  it,  when  prosecuted  by  benevolent 
corporations  and  individuals.  In  1833  the  Connecticut 
legislature  enacted  a  black  law,  for  the  purpose  of  sup¬ 
pressing  a  “  school  for  colored  misses  ”  which  Miss  Prud¬ 
ence  Crandall  had  been  forced  to  open  in  self-defense,  at 
Canterbury. 

The  cause  of  this  law  was  the  acceptance  by  Miss 
Crandall  of  a  young  colored  girl  into  her  select  school 
for  3/oung  ladies.  The  parents  of  the  white  students 
insisted  upon  the  dismissal  of  Miss  Harris,  the  bone  of 
contention,  but  Miss  Crandall  refused  to  do  so,  when 
the  white  students  were  withdrawn.  Miss  Crandall  then 
announced  that  she  would  open  her  school  for  “  young 
ladies  and  little  misses  of  color.”  The  people  of  Canter¬ 
bury  protested  against  this  course,  and  persecuted  legally 
and  otherwise  Miss  Crandall  and  her  twenty  pupils. 
When  they  found  that  they  could  not  intimidate  the  brave 
woman  the  legislature  was  appealed  to,  and  the  law  was 
enacted.  Under  it  Miss  Crandall  was  arrested  and  nlaced 
in  the  common  jail.  The  case  was  tried  three  times  in 
the  inferior  courts,  and  was  argued  on  appeal  before  the 
Court  of  Errors  July  22,  1834.  The  court  reserved  its 
decision  and  has  not  yet  rendered  it.  The  obnoxious  law 
was  repealed  in  1838. 

Schools  established  for  the  education  of  Negro  youth 
were  assaulted  and  wrecked  in  free  states,  but  the  good 
work  steadily  progressed.  Private  schools  sprang  up  in 
all  the  middle  and  New  England  states,  Pennsylvania, 
New  York  and  Massachusetts  leading  in  the  work,  their 
white  citizens  contributing  largely  to  their  support. 
There  were  many  of  these  schools,  some  of  them  of  splen- 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON  469 


did  character,  in  Boston,  Providence,  New  York,  Phila¬ 
delphia,  Washington  and  Cincinnati.  They  were  grad¬ 
ually  absorbed  into  the  public  school  system,  and  none 
of  them  now  exist  in  an  independent  character,  except 
the  Institute  for  colored  youth  at  Philadelphia,  Lincoln 
University,  in  Chester  County,  and  Avery  Institute,  at 
Allegheny  City,  all  in  Pennsylvania. 

In  1837  Richard  Humphreys  left  $10,000  by  will,  with 
which  the  Institute  for  colored  youth  was  started,  thirty 
members  of  the  Society  of  Friends  forming  themselves 
into  an  association  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  the 
wishes  and  plans  of  Mr.  Humphreys. 

The  measure  of  progress  which  has  been  made  in 
public  opinion  and  in  the  educational  status  of  the  Negro 
race  in  the  middle  and  New  England  states  can  easily 
be  estimated  by  the  fact  that  as  recently  as  1830  no 
Negro  could  matriculate  in  any  of  the  colleges  and  other 
schools  of  this  splendid  group  of  states,  and  that  now 
not  one  of  them  is  closed  against  a  black  person,  except 
Girard  College  at  Philadelphia,  whose  founder  made  a 
perpetual  discrimination  against  people  of  African  de¬ 
scent  in  devising  his  benefaction;  that  Negro  children 
stand  on  the  same  footing  with  white  children  in  all 
public  school  benefits ;  that  the  separate  school  system 
has  broken  down  entirely  in  the  New  England  States  and 
is  gradually  breaking  down  in  the  middle  states,  New 
Jersey  and  Pennsylvania  being  the  only  states  in  the 
latter  group  which  still  cling  to  the  principle;  and  that 
in  many  of  the  public  schools  of  both  groups  of  states 
Negro  teachers  are  employed  and  stand  on  the  same  foot¬ 
ing  as  white  teachers.  Indeed,  Miss  Maria  L.  Baldwin, 
an  accomplished  black  woman,  is  principal  of  the  Agas¬ 
siz  School,  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and  in  the  large  corps 
of  teachers  under  her  not  one  of  them  is  a  member  of 
her  own  race. 

All  this  is  a  very  long  stride  from  the  condition  of 
the  public  mind  in  the  middle  and  New  England  states 
when  Negro  children  were  not  allowed  to  attend  any 
public  school  or  college,  and  when  a  reputable  white 
woman  was  persecuted,  jailed  and  her  property  destroyed, 
in  1834,  for  accepting  a  young  colored  woman  into  her 


470  BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


select'  school.  This  remarkable  change  in  public  senti¬ 
ment  argues  well  for  the  future  of  the  Negro  race  and 
for  the  republic,  which  for  more  than  a  century  has 
agonized  over  this  race  problem,  and  is  still  anxious  about 
it  in  the  sixteen  southern  states,  where  a  large  majority 
of  the  negroes  reside,  and  will,  in  all  probability,  con¬ 
tinue  to  reside  for  all  time  to  come. 

A  revival  was  begun  in  public  or  common  school  ed¬ 
ucation,  in  1870,  which  is  still  in  progress,  such  as  swept 
over  New  England  and  the  Middle  States  from  1830 
to  i860.  Broken  in  fortune  and  bowed  with  defeat  in 
a  great  civil  war,  the  South  pulled  itself  together  as  a 
giant  rouses  from  slumber  and  shakes  himself  and  began 
to  lay  the  basis  of  a  new  career  and  a  new  prosperity 
in  a  condition  of  freedom  of  all  the  people  and  in  the 
widest  diffusion  of  education  among  the  citizens  through 
the  medium  of  the  common  schools.  Perhaps  no  people 
in  history  ever  showed  a  more  superb  public  spirit  and 
self-sacrifice  under  trying  circumstances  than  the  people 
of  the  South  have  displayed  in  the  gradual  building  up 
of  their  public  school  system  upon  the  ruins  of  the  aris¬ 
tocratic  academy  system.  The  work  had  to  be  done  from 
the  ground  up,  from  the  organization  of  the  working 
force  to  the  building  of  the  school  houses  and  the  mar¬ 
shaling  of  the  young  hosts.  The  work  has  required  in 
the  aggregate,  perhaps,  the  raising  by  taxation  of  $514,- 
922,268,  $100,000,000  having  been  expended  in  maintain¬ 
ing  the  separate  schools  for  the  Negro  race.  This  must 
be  regarded  as  a  marvelous  showing  when  the  impover¬ 
ished  condition  in  which  the  war  left  the  South  in  1865 
is  considered.  But  it  is  a  safe,  if  a  time-honored  saying, 
that  “  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way.”  The  south¬ 
ern  people  found  a  way  because  they  had  a  will  to  do  it ; 
and  it  is  not  too  much  to  claim  that  the  industrial  pros¬ 
perity  which  the  South  is  now  enjoying  is  intimately 
connected  with  the  effort  and  money  expended  in  popular 
education  since  1870. 

The  total  enrollment  of  the  sixteen  southern  states  and 
the  District  of  Columbia  for  the  year  1896-97  was  5,398,- 
076,  the  number  of  negro  children  being  1,460,084;  the 
number  of  white  children  3,937,992.  The  estimated  num- 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


47i 


ber  of  children  in  the  South  from  five  to  eighteen  years 
of  age  was  8,625,770,  of  which  2,816,340,  or  32.65  per 
cent  were  children  of  the  Negro  race,  and  5,809,430  or 
67.35  Per  cent  were  white  children.  The  number  of 
Negro  children  enrolled  was  51.84  per  cent  of  the  Negro 
population  and  67.79  Per  cent  the  white  population. 
When  the  relative  social  and  material  condition  of  the 
former  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the  latter  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  children  of  the  former  slaves  are  tread¬ 
ing  closely  upon  the  heels  of  the  children  of  the  former 
master  class  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  as  furnished  in 
the  public  school  system. 

During  the  year  1897  it  is  estimated  that  $31,144,801 
was  expended  in  public  school  education  in  the  sixteen 
southern  states  and  the  District  of  Columbia,  of  which, 
it  is  estimated,  $6,575,000  was  expended  upon  the  Negro 
schools.  Since  1870  it  is  estimated  that  $514,922,268 
have  been  expended  in  the  maintenance  of  the  public 
school  system  of  the  southern  states,  and  that  at  least 
$100,000,000  have  been  expended  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  separate  public  schools  for  Negroes. 

The  significance  of  the  facts  contained  in  the  two  fore¬ 
going  paragraphs  will  be  appreciated  by  Europeans  as 
well  as  Americans.  The  fact  that  2,816,340  children  of 
former  slaves  were  in  regular  attendance  in  the  public 
schools  of  the  late  slave-holding  states  of  the  South 
during  the  year  ..nd  that  $6,575,000  was  expended  for 
their  maintenance,  gathered  entirely  from  public  taxation 
and  funds  for  educational  purposes  controlled  by  the 
states,  should  be  regarded  as  the  strongest  arguments 
that  could  be  presented  to  Americans  or  to  foreigners 
to  prove  that  the  race  problem  in  the  United  States  is 
in  satisfactory  process  of  solution.  The  people  of  the 
southern  states,  the  old  slave-holding  class,  have  not  only 
accepted  in  good  faith  the  educational  burden  placed 
upon  them  in  the  addition  of  8,000,000  of  people  to  their 
citizenship,  but  they  have  discharged  that  burden  in  a 
way  that  must  command  the  admiration  of  the  world. 
That  my  own  people  are  discharging  their  part  of  the 
obligation  is  shown  in  the  statistics  of  school  attendance, 

o  7 

and  in  the  further  fact  that  it  is  estimated  they  have 


4/2 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


amassed,  since  their  emancipation  $300,000,000  of  tax¬ 
able  property.  While  this  may  seem  small  as  a  taxable 
value  as  compared  to  the  aggregate  of  taxable  values  in 
the  southern  states,  it  is  large,  indeed,  when  the  poverty 
of  the  Negro  race  in  1865,  with  all  the  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  slave  education  and  tradition  to  contend 
with,  are  considered.  When  a  race  starts  empty-handed 
in  the  serious  business  of  life,  what  it  inclines  to  and 
amasses  in  a  given  period  is  valuable  almost  wholly  as 
a  criterion  upon  which  to  base  a  reasonable  deduction  as 
to  its  ultimate  future.  The  Negro  race  is  compelled  to 
go  forward  in  the  social  scale  because  it  is  surrounded  by 
forces  which  will  not  permit  it  to  go  backwards  without 
crushing  the  life  out  of  it,  as  they  crushed  the  life  out 
of  the  unassimilable  aboriginal  Indian  races  of  North 
America.  It  is  clear  that  the  Negro  race,  in  its  desire 
to  American  education,  possesses  the  prime  element  of 
assimilation  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  American  life, 
and  if  its  desire  for  the  Christian  religion  be  added  we 
have  the  three  prime  elements  of  homogeneous  citizen¬ 
ship  as  defined  by  Prof.  Aldrini,  namely,  habitat,  language 
and  religion. 

It  seems  well  to  say  this  much,  adduced  from  the  sta¬ 
tistics  of  common  school  education  in  the  late  slave  states 
of  the  sixteen  southern  states  and  the  District  of  Colum¬ 
bia,  where  the  bulk  of  the  Negro  people  reside,  as  a 
logical  conclusion  in  a  problematical  situation,  concern¬ 
ing  which  many  wise  men  are  disposed  to  indulge  a 
pessimism  which  confuses  them  as  well  as  those  who 
have  to  deal  immediately  with  the  perplexing  condition 
of  affairs.  The  common  school  statistics  of  the  south¬ 
ern  states  leave  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate 
well-being  of  the  Negroes  residing  in  those  states. 

The  extraordinary  development  of  the  public  school 
system  of  the  sixteen  southern  states  and  the  District 
of  Columbia  has  been  hastily  recorded  since  1870.  It  is 
a  record  worthy  of  the  proud  people  who  made  it  — 
people  who  have  from  the  foundation  of  the  republic 
been  resourceful,  courageous,  self-reliant;  rising  always 
equal  to  any  emergency  presented  in  their  new  and  trying 
circv  ^stances,  surrounded  on  every  side,  as  they  were, 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


4  73 


by  a  vast  undeveloped  territory,  and  by  a  hostile  Indian 
population,  and  fatally  handicapped  by  a  system  of  Afri¬ 
can  slavery,  which  proved  a  millstone  about  the  neck  of 
the  people  until  it  was  finally  abolished,  amid  the  smoke 
and  flame  and  death  of  a  hundred  battles,  in  1865.  There 
are  none  so  niggardly  as  to  deny  to  the  southern  people 
the  full  measure  of  credit  which  they  deserve  for  the 
splendid  spirit  with  which  they  put  aside  their  prejudices 
of  more  than  two  centuries  against  popular  common 
school  education  on  the  one  hand,  and  their  equally  pre¬ 
scriptive  prejudice  against  the  education  of  the  Negro 
race  under  any  circumstances  on  the  other. 

But  the  public  school  system  of  the  southern  states  had 
to  have  other  and  more  substantial  foundation  than  was 
offered  at  the  close  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  in  1865, 
by  the  academy  and  college  system  which  had  been  fos¬ 
tered  and  developed  as  best  adapted  to  a  social  condition 
whose  cornerstone  was  the  slave  system.  Without  this 
foundation,  firmly  and  wisely  laid  in  the  fateful  years 
from  1865  to  1870,  by  the  initiative  of  the  Federal  gov¬ 
ernment,  magnificently  sustained  by  the  philanthropy  and 
missionary  consecration  of  the  people  of  the  New  Eng¬ 
land  and  middle  states,  the  results  which  we  have  secured 
in  the  public  school  system  of  the  South  from  1870  to 
the  present  time  would  not  have  been  possible.  All  the 
facts  in  the  situation  sustain  this  view. 

It  is  creditable  to  the  people  of  the  New  England  and 
middle  states  that  they,  who  had  been  engaged  for  four 
years  in  a  Titanic  warfare  with  their  brethren  of  the 
southern  states,  should  enter  the  southern  states  in  the 
person  of  their  sons  and  daughters,  and  with  a  voluntary 
gift  of  $40,000,000,  or  more,  to  plant  common  schools  and 
academies  and  colleges,  in  the  devastation  wrought  by 
the  Civil  War,  upon  the  sites  where  the  slave  auction 
block  had  stood  for  250  years,  thereby  lifting  the  glorious 
torch  of  knowledge  in  the  dense  mental  darkness  with 
which  the  slave  system  had  sought  to  hedge  its  power; 
nor  is  it  less  creditable  that  the  southern  people  accepted 
this  assistance  and  builded  upon  it  a  public  school  system 
which  promises  to  equal  that  in  any  of  the  other  sections 
of  the  republic. 


BOOKER  TALIAFERRO  WASHINGTON 


After  thirty  years  of  effort  there  are  25,615  Afro- 
American  teachers  in  the  schools  of  the  South,  where 
there  was  hardly  one  when  the  work  began ;  some  4,000 
men  have  been  prepared,  in  part  or  in  whole,  for  the 
work  of  the  Christian  ministry,  and  a  complete  revolution 
has  been  effected  in  the  mental  and  moral  character  of 
Afro-American  preachers,  a  service  which  no  one  can 
estimate  who  is  not  intimately  informed  of  the  tremen¬ 
dous  influence  which  these  preachers  exercise  every¬ 
where  over  the  masses  of  their  race ;  the  professions 
of  law  and  medicine  have  been  so  far  supplied  that 
one  or  more  representatives  are  to  be  found  in  every 
large  community  of  the  South,  as  well  as  in  the 
North  and  West,  graduates  for  the  most  part  of  the 
schools  of  the  South ;  and  all  over  the  South  are 
men  engaged  in  trade  occupations  whose  intellects  and 
characters  were  shaped  for  the  battle  of  life  by  the 
New  England  pioneers  who  took  up  the  work  where  their 
soldier  brothers  laid  it  down  at  the  close  of  the  war. 
But  the  influence  of  these  teachers  upon  the  character, 
the  home  life  of  the  thousands  who  are  neither  teach¬ 
ing,  preaching  nor  engaged  in  professional  or  commercial 
pursuits,  but  are  devoted  to  the  making  of  domestic  com¬ 
fort  and  happiness  for  their  husbands  and  children,  in 
properly  training  the  future  citizens  of  the  republic,  was 
one  of  the  most  necessary  and  far-reachinp-  that'  was  ex- 
ercised,  and  the  one  which  to-day  holds  out  the  promise 
for  the  best  results  in  the  years  to  come.” 

It  was  these  New  England  men  and  women  who 
labored  all  over  the  South  from  1865  to  1870  who  made 
possible  the  splendid  public  school  results.  Their  labors 
did  not  end  in  the  field  of  primary  education  in  1870; 
they  remained  at  their  posts  until  they  had  prepared 
the  25,000  Negroes  necessary  to  take  their  places.  And 
even  unto  to-day  hundreds  of  them  are  laboring  in  some 
one  of  the  169  schools  of  secondary  and  higher  educa¬ 
tion  maintained  for  the  freed  people. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


475 


'ASHINGTON,  George,  an  American  soldier 
and  statesman,  first  President  of  the  United 
States ;  born  at  Bridge’s  Creek,  Westmore¬ 
land  County,  Va.,  February  22,  1732;  died  at  Mount 
Vernon,  Va.,  December  14,  1799.  The  Life  of  Wash¬ 
ington  has  been  ably  written  by  John  Marshall 
(1805),  succinctly  by  Jared  Sparks,  as  a  prefix 
to  The  Writings  of  Washington  (1834),  and  best 
of  all,  upon  the  whole,  by  Washington  Irving  (1855). 
There  are  numerous  other  Lives  of  Washington, 
among  which  is  a  curious  Vita  Washingtonii ,  written 
in  Latin  by  Francis  Glass,  an  obscure  schoolmaster  in 
Ohio  (1835).  Washington  deserves  a  place  in  the 
history  of  literature,  although  he  wrote  nothing  espe¬ 
cially  designed  for  publication  except  his  £C  Farewell 
Address  ”  to  the  American  people,  and  this,  though 
drawn  up  from  his  own  memoranda,  submitted  to  his 
revisal,  and  copied  out  by  himself,  was,  as  a  compo¬ 
sition,  essentially  the  work  of  Alexander  Hamilton. 
The  Writings  of  George  Washington,  selected  and 
edited  by  Jared  Sparks  (12  vols.,  1838),  consist  in 
great  part  of  letters  of  a  public  or  private  nature,  and 
are  of  special  historical  and  biographical  value.  The 
Writings  of  George  Washington,  Including  His  Dia¬ 
ries  and  Correspondence,  edited  by  Worthington  C. 
Ford,  appeared  in  1889. 


RESPECTING  HIS  STEP-SON,  JOHN  PARK  CUSTIS. 

I  write  to  you  on  a  subject  of  importance,  and  of  no 
small  embarrassment  to  me.  My  son-in-law  and  ward, 
Mr.  Custis,  has,  as  I  have  been  informed,  paid  his  ad¬ 
dresses  to  your  second  daughter ;  and,  having  made  some 
progress  in  her  affections,  has  solicited  her  in  marriage. 


476 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


How  far  a  union  of  this  sort  may  be  agreeable  to  you, 
you  best  can  tell;  but  I  should  think  myself  wanting  in 
candor  were  I  not  to  confess  that  Miss  Nelly’s  amiable 
qualities  are  acknowledged  on  all  hands,  and  that 
an  alliance  with  your  family  will  be  pleasing  to  his. 
This  acknowledgment  being  made,  you  must  permit  me 
to  add,  sir,  that  at  this,  or  in  any  short  time,  his  youth, 
inexperience,  and  unripened  education  are,  and  will  be, 
insuperable  obstacles,  in  my  opinion,  to  the  completion 
of  the  marriage. 

As  his  guardian,  I  conceive  it  my  indispensable  duty 
to  endeavor  to  carry  him  through  a  regular  course  of 
education  (many  branches  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
he  is  totally  deficient  in),  and  to  guide  his  youth  to  a 
more  advanced  age,  before  an  event  on  which  his  own 
peace  and  the  happiness  of  another  depend  takes 
place. 

If  the  affection  which  they  have  avowed  for  each  other 
is  fixed  upon  a  solid  basis,  it  will  receive  no  diminution 
in  the  course  of  two  or  three  years;  in  which  time  he 
may  prosecute  his  studies,  and  thereby  render  himself 
more  deserving  of  the  young  lady,  and  useful  to  society. 
If,  unfortunately  —  as  they  are  both  young  —  there 
should  be  an  abatement  of  affection  on  either  side,  or 
both,  it  had  better  precede  than  follow  marriage. 

Delivering  my  sentiments  thus  freely  will  not,  I  hope, 
lead  you  into  a  belief  that  I  am  desirous  of  breaking 
off  the  match.  To  postpone  it  is  all  I  have  in  view;  for 
I  shall  recommend  to  the  young  gentleman,  with  the 
warmth  that  becomes  a  man  of  honor,  to  consider  him¬ 
self  engaged  to  your  daughter  as  if  the  indissoluble 
knot  were  tied ;  and  as  the  surest  means  of  effecting 
this,  to  apply  himself  closely  to  his  studies ;  by  which 
he  will  in  a  great  measure  avoid  those  little  flirtations 
with  other  young  ladies,  that  may,  by  dividing  the  atten¬ 
tion,  contribute  not  a  little  to  divide  the  affection. —  To 
Mr.  Calvert:  1773. 


Washington's  headquarters,  newburgh 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


4  77 


ON  THE  EARLY  DISPUTES  WITH  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

At  a  time  when  our  lordly  masters  in  Great  Britain 
will  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  the  deprivation 
of  American  freedom,  it  seems  necessary  that  something 
should  be  done  to  avert  the  stroke,  and  maintain  the 
liberty  which  we  have  derived  from  our  ancestors.  But 
the  manner  of  doing  it,  to  answer  the  purpose  effectual¬ 
ly,  is  the  point  in  question.  That  no  man  should  scruple 
or  hesitate  a  moment  in  defence  of  so  valuable  a  bless¬ 
ing,  is  clearly  my  opinion ;  3^et  arms  should  be  the  last 
recourse  —  the  dernier  rcssort.  We  have  already,  it  is 
said,  proved  the  inefficacy  of  addresses  to  the  throne, 
and  remonstrances  to  Parliament.  How  far  their  atten¬ 
tion  to  our  rights  and  interests  is  to  be  awakened,  or 
alarmed,  by  starving  their  trade  and  manufactures,  re¬ 
mains  to  be  tried.  The  Northern  Colonies,  it  appears, 
are  endeavoring  to  adopt  this  scheme.  In  my  opinion, 
it  is  a  good  one,  and  must  be  attended  with  salutary 
effects,  provided  it  can  be  carried  pretty  generally  into 
execution.  .  .  . 

That  there  will  be  a  difficulty  attending  it  everywhere 
from  clashing  interests,  and  selfish,  designing  men  ever 
attentive  to  their  own  gain  and  watchful  of  every  turn 
that  can  assist  their  designing  views ;  and  in  the  tobacco 
colonies,  where  the  trade  is  so  diffused,  and  in  a  man¬ 
ner  wholly  conducted  by  factors  for  their  principals  at 
home,  these  difficulties  are  considerably  enhanced,  but 
I  think  not  insurmountably  increased,  if  the  gentlemen 
in  their  several  counties  will  be  at  some  pains  to  ex¬ 
plain  matters  to  the  people,  and  stimulate  them  to  pur¬ 
chase  none  but  certain  enumerated  articles  out  of  any 
of  the  stores,  after  a  definite  period,  and  neither  import 
or  purchase  any  themselves.  .  .  . 

I  can  see  but  one  class  of  people  —  the  merchants  ex¬ 
cepted —  who  will  not,  or  ought  not,  to  wish  well  to  the 
scheme :  namely  they  who  live  genteelly  and  hospitably 
on  their  estates.  Such  as  these,  were  they  not  to  con¬ 
sider  the  valuable  object  in  view,  and  the  good  of  others, 


4/8 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


might  think  it  hard  to  be  curtailed  in  their  living  and 
enjoyments. —  To  George  Meson:  1769. 

ACCEPTING  THE  COMMAND  OF  THE  ARMY. 

You  may  believe  me,  when  I  assure  you  in  the  most 
solemn  manner  that,  so  far  from  seeking  this  employ¬ 
ment,  I  have  used  every  effort  in  my  power  to  avoid  it, 
not  only  from  my  unwillingness  to  part  with  you  and 
the  family,  but  from  a  consciousness  of  its  being  a  trust 
too  great  for  my  capacity;  and  I  should  enjoy  more 
real  happiness  in  one  month  with  you  at  home  than  I 
have  the  most  distant  prospect  of  finding  abroad,  if  my 
stay  were  to  be  seven  times  seven  years.  But  as  it  has 
been  a  kind  of  destiny  that  has  thrown  me  upon  this 
service,  I  shall  hope  that  my  undertaking  it  is  designed 
to  answer  some  good  purpose.  .  .  . 

I  shall  rely  confidently  on  that  Providence  which  has 
heretofore  preserved  and  been  bountiful  to  me,  not  doubt¬ 
ing  but  that  I  shall  return  safe  to  you  in  the  fall. 
I  shall  feel  no  pain  from  the  toil  or  danger  of  the  cam¬ 
paign  ;  my  unhappiness  will  flow  from  the  uneasiness  I 
know  you  will  feel  from  being  left  alone.  I  therefore 
beg  that  you  will  summon  your  whole  fortitude,  and 
pass  your  time  as  agreeably  as  possible.  Nothing  will 
give  me  so  much  sincere  satisfaction  as  to  hear  this, 
and  to  hear  it  from  your  own  pen. —  To  His  Wife: 
June,  1775. 


ON  PROFANITY  IN  THE  ARMY. 

That'  the  troops  may  have  an  opportunity  of  attend¬ 
ing  public  worship,  as  well  as  to  take  some  rest  after 
the  great  fatigue  they  have  gone  through,  the  General 
in  future  excuses  them  from  fatigue-duty  on  Sundays, 
except  at  the  ship-yards,  or  on  special  occasions,  until 
further  orders.  The  General  is  sorry  to  be  informed 
that  the  foolish  and  wicked  practice  of  profane  swear¬ 
ing —  a  vice  heretofore  little  known  in  an  American 
army  —  is  growing  into  fashion.  He  hopes  the  officers 
will,  by  example  as  well  as  influence,  endeavor  to  check 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


479 


it ;  and  that  both  they  and  the  men  will  reflect  that  we 
can  have  little  hope  of  the  blessing  of  Heaven  upon 
our  arms  if  we  insult  it  by  our  impiety  and  folly.  Added 
to  this,  it  is  a  vice  so  mean  and  low,  without  any  temp¬ 
tation,  that  every  man  of  sense  and  character  detests  it. 
—  General  Order ,  August  3,  1775' 

GOD  RULING  THE  AFFAIRS  OF  NATIONS. 

It  would  be  peculiarly  improper  to  omit  in  this  first 
official  act  my  fervent  supplications  to  that  Almighty 
Being  Who  rules  over  the  universe,  Who  presides  in  the 
councils  of  nations,  and  Whose  Providential  aids  can 
supply  every  human  defect,  that  His  benediction  may 
consecrate  to  the  liberties  and  happiness  of  the  people 
of  the  United  States  a  government  instituted  by  them¬ 
selves  for  these  essential  purposes '  and  may  enable 
every  instrument  employed  in  the  administration  to  ex¬ 
ecute  with  success  the  functions  allotted  to  its  charge. 

In  tendering  this  homage  to  the  Great  Author  of 
every  public  and  private  good,  I  assure  myself  that  it 
expresses  your  sentiments  not  less  than  my  own,  nor 
those  of  my  fellow-citizens  less  than  either.  No  people 
can  be  bound  to  acknowledee  and  adore  the  invisible 
hand  which  conducts  the  affairs  of  men  more  than  the 
people  of  the  United  States.  Every  step  by  which  they 
have  advanced  to  the  character  of  an  independent  na¬ 
tion  seems  to  have  been  distinguished  by  some  token 
of  Providential  agency,  and  in  the  important  revolution 
just  accomplished  in  the  system  of  their  united  govern¬ 
ment  the  tranquil  deliberations  and  voluntary  consent 
of  so  many  distinct  communities  from  which  the  event 
has  resulted,  cannot  be  compared  with  the  means  by 
which  most  governments  have  been  established  with¬ 
out  some  return  of  pious  gratitude,  along  with  an  hum¬ 
ble  anticipation  of  the  future  blessing  which  the  past 
seems  to  presage. —  Inaugural  Address,  April  30,  1789. 

TO  LAFAYETTE,  ON  SLAVERY. 

The  scheme  which  you  propose,  as  a  precedent  to 
encourage  the  emancipation  of  the  black  people  in  this 


480 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


country  from  the  state  of  bondage  in  which  they  are 
held,  is  a  striking  evidence  of  the  benevolence  of  your 
heart,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  join  you  in  so  laudable  a 
work.  Your  purchase  of  an  estate  in  the  colony  of 
Cayenne,  with  a  view  of  emancipating  the  slaves  on  it, 
is  a  generous  and  noble  proof  of  your  humanity.  Would 
to  God  a  like  spirit  might  diffuse  itself  generally  into 
the  minds  of  the  people  of  this  country  !  But  I  despair 
of  seeing  it.  There  is  not  a  man  living  who  wishes 
more  earnestly  than  I  do  to  see  a  plan  adopted  for  the 
abolition  of  it.  But  there  is  only  one  proper  and  ef¬ 
fectual  mode  by  which  it  can  be  accomplished;  and  that 
is  by  legislative  authority;  and  this,  as  far  as  my  suf¬ 
frage  will  go,  shall  never  be  wanting.  I  never  mean, 
unless  some  particular  circumstances  should  compel  me 
to  it,  to  possess  another  slave  by  purchase ;  it  being 
among  my  first  wishes  to  see  some  plan  adopted  by  which 
slavery  in  this  country  may  be  abolished  by  law. 

TESTAMENTARY  EMANCIPATION  OF  HIS  SLAVES. 

I,  George  Washington,  of  Mount  Vernon,  a  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  and  lately  President  of  the  same,  do 
make,  ordain,  and  declare  this  instrument,  which  is 
written  with  my  own  hand,  and  every  page  thereof  sub¬ 
scribed  with  my  name,  to  be  my  last  Will  and  Testa¬ 
ment,  revoking  all  others.  .  .  . 

Item.  Upon  the  decease  of  my  wife,  it  is  my  will 
and  desire  that  all  the  slaves  whom  I  hold  in  my  own 
right  shall  receive  their  freedom.  To  emancipate  them 
during  her  life  would,  though  earnestly  wished  by  me, 
be  attended  by  such  insuperable  difficulties,  on  account 
of  their  intermixture  by  marriage,  with  the  dower  ne¬ 
groes,  as  to  excite  the  most  painful  sensations,  if  not 
disagreeable  consequences  to  the  latter,  while  both  de¬ 
scriptions  are  in  the  occupancy  of  the  same  proprietor ; 
it  not  being  in  my  power,  under  the  tenure  by  which 
the  dower  negroes  are  held,  to  emancipate  them.  And 
whereas,  among  those  who  will  receive  freedom  accord¬ 
ing  to  this  devise,  there  may  be  some  who,  from  old 
age  or  bodily  infirmities,  and  others  on  account  of  their 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


4' 3  r 


infancy,  be  unable  to  support  themselves,  it'  is  my  will 
and  desire  that  all  who  come  under  the  first  and  second 
description  shall  be  comfortably  clothed  and  fed  by  my 
heirs  while  they  live;  and*  that  such  of  the  latter  de¬ 
scription  as  have  no  parents  living,  or,  if  living,  are 
unable  or  unwilling  to  provide  for  them,  shall  be  bound 
by  the  Court  until  they  arrive  at  the  age  of  twenty-five 
years ;  and,  in  cases  where  no  record  can  be  produced 
whereby  their  ages  can  be  ascertained,  the  judgment  of 
the  court,  upon  its  own  view  of  the  subject,  shall  be 
adequate  and  final. 

The  negroes  thus  bound  are  (by  their  masters  or  mis¬ 
tresses)  to  be  taught  to  read  and  write,  and  to  be 
brought  up  to  some  useful  occupation,  agreeably  to  the 
laws  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Virginia,  providing  for 
the  support  of  orphan  and  other  poor  children.  And  I 
do  expressly  forbid  the  sale  or  transportation  out  of 
the  said  Commonwealth  of  any  slave  I  may  die  possessed 
of,  under  any  pretence  whatsoever.  And  so  I  do,  more¬ 
over,  most  pointedly  and  most  solemnly  enjoin  it  upon 
my  executors  hereafter  named,  or  the  survivors  of  them, 
to  see  that  this  clause  respecting  slaves,  and  every  part 
thereof,  be  religiously  fulfilled  at  the  epoch  at  which  it  is 
directed  to  take  place,  without  evasion,  neglect,  or  delay, 
after  the  crops  which  are  then  on  the  ground  are  har¬ 
vested,  particularly  as  respects  the  aged  or  infirm ;  see¬ 
ing  that  a  regular  and  permanent  fund  be  established  for 
their  support,  as  long  as  there  are  subjects  requiring  it; 
not  trusting  to  the  uncertain  provision  to  be  made  by 
individuals. 

And  to  my  mulatto  man,  William,  calling  himself 
William  Lee,  I  give  immediate  freedom,  or,  if  he  should 
prefer  (on  account  of  the  accidents  which  have  befallen 
him,  and  which  have  rendered  him  incapable  of  walking 
or  of  any  active  employment),  to  remain  in  the  situation 
he  now  is,  it  shall  be  optional  in  him  to  do  so ;  in  either 
case,  however,  I  allow  him  an  annuity  of  thirty  dollars, 
during  his  natural  life,  which  shall  be  independent  of 
the  victuals  and  clothes  he  has  been  accustomed  to  re¬ 
ceive,  if  he  chooses  the  last  alternative;  but  in  full  with 
his  freedom,  if  he  prefers  the  first;  and  this  I  give  him 
Vol.  XXIII.— 31 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


482 

as  a  testimony  of  my  sense  of  his  attachment  to  me,  and 
for  his  faithful  services  during  the  Revolutionary  War. 

Besides  the  slaves  which  Washington  held  in  his 
own  right  there  were  some  thirty  or  forty  belonging 
to  the  estate  of  Bartholomew  Dandridge,  the  deceased 
brother  of  Mrs.  Washington ;  these  had  been  levied 
upon  by  execution,  and  bought  in  by  Washington, 
who  had  suffered  them  to  remain  in  the  possession  of 
Bartholomew’s  widow  during  her  life;  upon  her  death 
they  were  also  to  be  manumitted  in  a  manner  similar 
to  those  already  provided  for.  The  will  is  a  very  long 
one,  as  there  was  much  property  of  various  kinds  to 
be  devised ;  and  the  will  had  been  drawn  up  by  him¬ 
self,  “  no  professional  character  having  been  consulted, 
or  having  had  any  agency  in  the  draft.”  It  closes 
with  a  provision  designed  to  prevent  any  possible  liti¬ 
gation  in  respect  to  its  provisions. 

FORESTALLING  LITIGATION. 

I  hope  and  trust  that  no  disputes  will  arise.  But  if, 
contrary  to  expectation,  the  case  should  be  otherwise, 
from  the  want  of  legal  expressions  or  the  usual  technical 
terms,  or  because  too  much  has  been  said  on  any  of  the 
devises  to  be  consonant  with  law,  my  will  and  direction 
expressly  is,  that  all  disputes  (if  unhappily  any  should 
arise)  shall  be  decided  by  three  impartial  and  intelligent 
men,  known  for  their  probity  and  good  understanding, 
two  to  be  chosen  by  the  disputants,  each  having  the 
choice  of  one,  and  the  third  by  those  two ;  which  three 
men,  thus  chosen,  shall,  unfettered  by  law  or  legal  con¬ 
structions,  declare  their  sense  of  the  testator’s  intention ; 
and  such  decision  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  to  be 
as  binding  on  the  parties  as  if  it  had  been  given  in  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States. 

This  will,  which,  as  Washington  says,  “  had  occu- 


MOUNT  VERNON. 


DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON 


483 


pied  many  of  my  leisure  hours,”  was  executed  on  July 
9,  1799.  He  had  entered  upon  his  sixty-seventh  year; 
but  there  was  every  reason  to  anticipate  for  him  sev¬ 
eral  years  more  of  earthly  life,  instead  of  the  six 
months  which  were  allotted  to  him. 


|  AS  SON,  David  Atwood,  an  American  essay¬ 
ist  and  poet ;  born  at  Brooksville,  Me.,  May 
14,  1823;  died  at  West  Medford,  Mass., 
January  21,  1887.  He  was  educated  at  North  Yar¬ 
mouth,  Phillips  Academy  at  Andover,  Bowdoin  Col¬ 
lege,  and  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Bangor.  In 
1851  he  became  a  Unitarian  pastor  at  Groveland, 
Mass.  The  next  year,  having  departed  from  the  an¬ 
cient  faith,  he  undertook  a  new  independent  church 
in  the  same  place.  Several  years  after  this  he  became 
colleague  of  the  Rev.  T.  W.  Higginson  at  Worcester, 
then  traveled  abroad,  resided  in  Concord,  was  minis¬ 
ter  of  Theodore  Parker’s  Society  in  Boston  (1865- 
67),  passed  some  years  in  Germany,  and  retired  to 
West  Medford,  Mass.  His  remarkably  vigorous  es¬ 
says  and  reviews  appeared  mostly  in  the  Christian 
Examiner  and  Atlantic  Monthly.  A  selection,  with 
Memoir,  has  been  published  by  the  Rev.  O.  B.  Froth- 
ingham  (1889),  also  a  volume  of  Poems. 


SUFFRAGE  A  TRUST. 

The  moral  right  to  assume  any  controlling  or  im¬ 
portant  function  in  society  cannot  be  rationally  con¬ 
ceived  of  otherwise  than  as  contingent  upon  the  ability 
to  exercise  it  with  good  effect  to  all  concerned.  Doubt¬ 
less  there  may  be  a  natural  right  of  every  man  to  put  a 


4S4 


DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON 


written  or  printed  name  into  a  wooden  box,  if  such  be 
his  pleasure ;  but  that  which  distinguishes  a  vote  is  its 
acknowledged  power  to  bind  the  community  as  a  whole ; 
and  this  power  is  no  property  of  the  individual  simply 
as  such.  Whence  this  power?  To  answer  the  question 
were  to  write  or  recite  a  primary  chapter  in  political 
philosophy,  for  which  this  is  not  the  place.  But  the 
upshot  of  the  matter  is  simply  this :  Suffrage  is  a  means 
to  an  end,  and  legitimate  only  as  it  serves  toward  an 
end.  Moreover,  it  is  an  instituted  means,  one  part  of 
the  entire  political  system,  and  grounded,  like  every  other 
part,  in  the  Constitution  of  the  State.  It  implies,  not 
indeed  a  formal  contract,  but  a  moral  engagement,  to 
which  the  corporate  community  in  its  wholeness,  includ¬ 
ing  men,  women,  and  minors,  is  one  party,  the  in¬ 
dividual  voter  another.  He  is  engaged  to  promote  the 
public  welfare,  and  the  corporate  community  is  engaged 
to  acknowledge  his  expression  of  choice  as  authoritative. 
Hence  the  voter  is  a  political  functionary,  and  in  a 
place  of  trust,  no  less  truly  than  the  governor  of  the 
Commonwealth.  Governor  Butler  is  in  his  place  to  act 
under  the  Constitution  for  the  Commonwealth  of  Massa¬ 
chusetts,  to  the  end  that  it  may  be  ordered  in  justice, 
and  wisely  provided  for ;  and  every  man  who  voted  for 
or  against  him  was  at  the  polls  to  act  under  the  same 
Constitution  for  the  same  corporate  body  and  to  the 
same  end.  One  of  the  remonstrants  before  the  com¬ 
mittee  said  that  suffrage  is  not  a  private  right,  but  a 
political  privilege.  He  was  thinking  toward  the  truth, 
but  “  privilege  ”  is  not  the  word,  for  it  signifies  a  some¬ 
what  conferred  or  conceded  for  the  particular  benefit' 
of  the  recipient.  Suffrage  is  a  functional  trust,  insti¬ 
tuted  and  assigned  not  for  the  particular  benefit  of  the 
voter,  or  the  voting  class,  but  for  that  of  the  civil  com¬ 
munity  in  its  present  wholeness  and  historic  continuity. 
No  other  conception  of  it  is  either  rational  or  moral. 
When,  therefore,  someone  comes  forward  to  say,  “  I 
claim  suffrage  as  my  right,”  let  our  legislators  remember 
that  there  is  another  right,  of  which  they  are  the  present 
custodians,  and  which  is  not  merely  putative  or  asserted, 
but  as  unquestionable  as  it  is  important.  It  is  the  grand 


DAVID  ATWOOD  WASSON 


485 


right  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  to  be  or¬ 
dered  and  ruled  in  the  best  way  without  injurious  or 
needless  costs.  Here  is  a  right  worth  talking  of,  a 
right  to  which  every  possible  right  to  vote  is  subsidiary, 
and  one,  too,  which  appertains  to  the  infant  in  the  cradle 
no  less  than  to  any  adult,  male  or  female. 

IDEALS. 

Angels  of  growth,  of  old,  in  that  surprise 
Of  your  first  vision,  wild  and  sweet, 

I  poured  in  passionate  sighs 
My  wish  unwise 

That  ye  descend  my  heart  to  meet  — 

My  heart  so  slow  to  rise. 

Now  thus  I  pray:  Angelic  be  to  hold 
In  Heaven  your  shining  poise  afar, 

And  to  my  wishes  bold 
Reply  with  cold, 

Sweet  invitation,  like  a  star 
Fixed  in  the  heavens  old. 

Did  ye  descend,  what  were  ye  more  than  I? 

Is’t  not  by  this  ye  are  divine  — 

That,  native  to  the  sky, 

Ye  cannot  hie 

Downward,  and  give  low  hearts  the  wine 
That  should  reward  the  high? 

Weak,  yet  in  weakness  I  no  more  complain 
Of  your  abiding  in  your  places: 

Oh,  still,  howe’er  my  pain 
Wild  prayers  may  rain, 

Keep  pure  on  high  the  perfect  graces 
That  stooping  could  but  stain. 

Not  to  content  your  lowness,  but  to  lure 
And  lift  us  to  your  angelhood, 

Do  your  surprises  pure 
Dawn  far  and  sure 


486 


CLARA  ERSKINE  CLEMENT  WATERS 


Above  the  tumult  of  young  blood, 

And  starlike  there  endure. 

Wait  there  !  wait,  and  invite  me  while  I  climb 
For,  see,  I  come !  but  slow,  but  slow ! 

Yet  ever  as  your  chime, 

Soft  and  sublime, 

Lifts  at  my  feet,  they  move,  they  go 
Up  the  great  stair  of  Time. 


’ATERS,  Clara  Erskine  Clement,  an  Amer- 
* 1  ican  novelist  and  essayist ;  born  at  St.  Louis, 
Mo.,  August  28,  1834.  Clement  was  the 
name  of  her  first  husband,  and  her  books  still  bear 
that  name;  she  afterward  married  Edwin  F.  Waters, 
and  went  to  live  in  Cambridge,  Mass.  She  traveled 
much  in  Europe  and  the  Orient,  and  made  a  voyage 
around  the  world.  Her  Simple  Story  of  the  Orient 
appeared  in  1869;  Eleanor  Maitland,  a  novel,  and 
Egypt  in  1881;  Charlotte  Cushman,  in  1882;  The 
Queen  of  the  Adriatic  (1893);  Naples  the  City  of 
Parthenope  (1894).  Her  valuable  publications  on  the 
Fine  Arts  are  Handbook  of  Legendary  and  Mytho¬ 
logical  Art  (1871)  ;  Painters,  Sculptors,  Architects, 
Engravers,  and  Their  Works  (1873);  Artists  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  Lawrence  Hutton,  co-author 
(1879)  ;  Outline  History  of  Painting  for  Young  Peo¬ 
ple  and  Students  (1883);  Outline  History  of  Sculp¬ 
ture  for  Young  People  and  Students  (1885)  ;  Chris¬ 
tian  Symbols  and  Stories  of  the  Saints  (1886)  ;  Sto¬ 
ries  of  Art  and  Artists  (1866)  ;  Women  Artists  in 
Europe  and  America  (1903)  ;  Handbook  of  Christian 


CLARA  ERSKINE  CLEMENT  WATERS  487 


Symbols,  Katherine  E.  Conway,  co-author.  Besides 
these  works,  Mrs.  Waters  has  translated  a  volume  of 
Renan's  lectures,  and  Henri  Greville’s  Dosias  Dough- 
ter,  and  edited  Carl  von  Lutzow’s  Treasures  of  Italian 
Art. 


SIR  EDWIN  LANDSEER. 

John  Landseer  taught  his  son  to  look  to  Nature  above 
all  else  as  his  model,  and  Haydon,  the  painter,  who 
instructed  his  brothers,  advised  Edwin  to  dissect  animals 
as  other  artists  dissected  their  subjects.  These  two 
pieces  of  advice  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  only 
important  teaching  which  Edwin  Landseer  received ;  he 
followed  them  both  faithfully,  and  when  thirteen  years 
old  made  his  first  exhibition  at  the  Royal  Academy. 
During  fifty-eight  years  there  were  but  six  in  which  he 
did  not  send  his  pictures  there.  When  fourteen  he  en¬ 
tered  the  Academy  schools,  and  divided  his  time  between 
sketching  from  the  wild  beasts  at  Exeter  Change  and 
drawing  in  the  classes.  He  was  a  handsome,  manly  boy, 
and  the  keeper,  Fuseli,  was  very  fond  of  him,  calling 
him,  as  a  mark  of  affection,  “  My  little  dog-boy.’’ 

He  was  very  industrious,  and  painted  many  pictures ; 
the  best  one  of  what  are  known  as  his  early  works  is 
the  “  Cat’s-Paw,”  and  represents  a  monkey  using  the 
paw  of  a  cat  to  push  hot  chestnuts  from  the  top  of  a 
stove :  the  struggles  of  the  cat  are  unavailing.  .  .  . 

Up  to  this  time  the  master  seems  to  have  thought 
only  of  making  exact  likenesses  of  animals,  just  as  other 
painters  had  done  before  him;  but  he  now  began  to  put 
something  more  into  his  works  and  to  show  the  peculiar 
power  which  made  him  so  remarkable  —  a  power  which 
he  was  the  first  to  manifest  in  his  pictures.  I  mean 
that  he  began  to  paint  animals  in  their  relation  to  man, 
and  to  show  how  they  are  his  imitators,  his  servants, 
friends,  and  companions.  .  .  . 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  in  London  when  the  “  Cat’s- 
Paw  ”  was  exhibited,  and  was  so  pleased  by  the  picture 
that  he  sought  out  the  young  painter  and  invited  him 
to  go  home  with  him.  Sir  Walter’s  well-known  love  for 


48S  CLARA  ERSKINE  CLEMENT  WATERS 


dogs  was  a  foundation  for  the  intimate  affection  which 
grew  up  between  himself  and  Landseer.  In  1824  the 
painter  first  saw  Scotland,  and  during  fifty  years  he 
studied  its  people,  its  scenery,  its  customs ;  he  loved  them 
all,  and  could  ever  draw  new  subjects  and  new  en¬ 
thusiasm  from  the  breezy  North.  Sir  Walter  wrote  in 
his  journal:  “Landseer’s  dogs  are  the  most  magnifi¬ 
cent  things  I  ever  saw;  leaping  and  bounding  and  grin¬ 
ning  all',  over  the  canvas.”  The  friendship  of  Sir  Walter 
had  a  great  effect  upon  the  young  painter;  it  developed 
the  imagination  and  romance  of  his  nature,  and  he  was 
affected  by  the  human  life  of  Scotland,  so  that  he 
painted  the  shepherd,  the  gillie,  and  the  poacher,  and 
made  his  pictures  speak  the  tenderness  and  truth,  as 
well  as  the  fearlessness  and  the  hardihood,  of  the  Gaelic 
race.  The  free,  vigorous  Northern  life  brought  to  the 
surface  that  which  the  habits  of  a  London  gentleman 
in  brilliant  society  never  could  have  developed.  One 
critic  has  said:  “It  taught  him  true  power;  it  freed 
his  imagination;  it  braced  up  all  his  loose  ability;  it 
elevated  and  refined  his  mind ;  it  developed  his  latent 
poetry ;  it  completed  his  education.”  .  .  . 

Between  1835  and  1866  he  painted  almost  numberless 
pictures  of  the  Oueen,  of  various  members  of  her  family, 
and  of  the  pets  of  the  royal  household.  In  1850  he  was 
knighted,  and  was  at  the  very  height  of  his  popularity 
and  success. 

An  anecdote  of  Sydney  Smith  relates  that  when  some¬ 
one  asked  him  to  sit  to  Landseer  for  his  portrait,  he  re¬ 
plied  :  “  Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this 
great  thing !  ” 

Landseer  had  an  extreme  fondness  for  studying  and 
making  pictures’ of  lions;  and  from  the  time  when,  as  a 
boy,  he  dissected  one,  he  tried  to  obtain  the  body  of 
every  lion  that  died  in  London.  Dickens  was  in  the 
habit  of  relating  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he  and  others 
were  dining  with  the  artist,  a  servant  entered  and  asked : 
“Did  you  order  a  lion,  sir?”  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  The  guests  feared  that  a 
living  lion  was  about  to  enter;  but  it  turned  out  to  be 


CHARLES  WATERTON 


4S9 


only  the  body  of  the  dead  “  Nero  ”  of  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  which  had  been  sent  as  a  gift  to  Sir  Edwin. 

His  skill  in  drawing  was  marvellous,  and  was  once 
shown  in  a  rare  way  at  an  evening-party.  Facility  in 
drawing  had  been  the  theme  of  conversation,  when  a 
lady  declared  that  no  one  had  yet  drawn  two  objects  at 
the  same  moment.  Landseer  would  not  admit  that  this 
could  not  be  done,  and  immediately  took  two  pencils 
and  drew  a  horse’s  head  with  one  hand,  and  at  precisely 
the  same  time  a  stag’s  head  with  antlers  with  the  other. 
—  Stories  of  Art  and  Artists. 


I^ATERTON,  Charles,  an  English  naturalist 
and  traveler;  born  at  Walton  Hall,  Wake¬ 
field,  June  3,  1782;  died  at  London,  May  27, 
1865.  Mr.  Waterton  set  out  from  his  seat  of  Walton 
Hall,  Wakefield,  in  1812,  to  wander  through  the  wilds 
of  Demerara  and  Essequibo,  with  the  view  to  reach 
the  inland  frontier  fort  of  Portuguese  Guiana ;  to 
collect  a  quantity  of  the  strongest  W ourali  poison ; 
and  to  catch  and  stuff  the  beautiful  birds  which  abound 
in  that  part  of  South  America.  He  made  two  more 
journeys  to  the  same  territories  —  in  1816  and  1820 
—  and  in  1825  published  his  Wanderings  in  South 
America,  the  North-west  of  the  United  States,  and 
the  Antilles.  His  fatigues  and  dangers  were  nume¬ 
rous.  In  telling  of  his  travels  he  says : 


“  In  order  to  pick  up  matter  for  natural  history,  I  have 
wandered  through  the  wildest  part's  of  South  America’s 
equinoctial  regions.  I  have  attacked  and  slain  a  modern 
python,  and  rode  on  the  back  of  a  cayman  close  to  the 
water’s  edge ;  a  very  different  situation  from  that  of  a 


490 


CHARLES  W  ALERT  ON 


Hyde-Park  dandy  on  his  Sunday  prancer  before  the 
ladies.  Alone  and  barefoot  I  have  pulled  poisonous 
snakes  out  of  their  lurking-places;  climbed  up  trees  to 
peep  into  holes  for  bats  and  vampires;  and  for  days 
together  hastened  through  sun  and  rain  to  the  thickest 
parts  of  the  forest  to  procure  specimens  I  had  never 
seen  before.” 

The  adventures  of  the  python  and  cayman  —  or  the 
snake  and  crocodile  —  made  much  noise  and  amusement 
at  the  time,  and  the  latter  feat  formed  the  subject  of  a 
caricature.  Mr.  Waterton  had  long  wished  to  obtain 
one  of  those  enormous  snakes  called  Coulacanara,  and 
at  length  he  saw  one  coiled  up  i  '  his  den.  He  advanced 
towards  it  stealthily,  and  with  his  lance  struck  it  behind 
the  neck  and  fixed  it  to  the  ground. 

ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  SNAKE. 

That  moment  the  negro  next  to  me  seized  the  lance 
and  held  it  firm  in  its  place,  while  I  dashed  head  fore¬ 
most  into  the  den  to  grapple  with  the  snake,  and  to  get 
hold  of  his  tail  before  he  could  do  any  mischief. 

On  pinning  him  to  the  ground  with  the  lance,  he  gave 
a  tremendous  loud  hiss,  and  the  little  dog  ran  away, 
howling  as  he  went.  We  had  a  sharp  fray  in  the  den, 
the  rotten  sticks  flying  on  all  sides,  and  each  party  strug¬ 
gling  for  the  superiority.  I  called  out  to  the  second 
negro  to  throw  himself  upon  me,  as  I  found  I  was  not' 
heavy  enough.  He  did  so,  and  his  additional  weight  was 
of  great  service.  I  had  now  got  firm  hold  of  his  tail, 
and  after  a  violent  struggle  or  two  he  gave  in,  finding 
himself  overpowered.  This  was  the  moment  to  secure 
him.  So  while  the  first  negro  continued  to  hold  the  lance 
firm  to  the  ground,  and  the  other  was  helping  me,  I 
contrived  to  unloosen  my  braces,  and  with  them  tied  up 
the  snake’s  mouth. 

The  snake,  now  finding  himself  in  an  unpleasant  situa¬ 
tion,  tried  to  better  himself,  and  set  resolutely  to  work, 
but  we  overpowered  him.  [It  measured  fourteen  feet, 
and  was  of  great  thickness.]  We  contrived  to  make  him 
twist  himself  round  the  shaft  of  the  lance,  and  then 


CHARLES  W  ALERT  ON 


491 


prepared  to  convey  him  out  of  the  forest.  I  stood  at  his 
head  and  held  it  firm  under  my  arm,  one  negro  supported 
the  belly,  and  the  other  the  tail.  In  this  order  we  began 
to  move  slowly  towards  home,  and  reached  it  after  rest¬ 
ing  ten  times. 

On  the  following  day,  Mr.  Waterton  killed  the  animal, 
securing  its  skin  for  Walton  Hall.  The  crocodile  was 
seized  on  the  Essequibo.  He  had  been  tantalized  for 
three  days  with  the  hope  of  securing  one  of  the  animals. 
He  baited  a  shark-hook  with  a  large  fish,  and  at  last 
was  successful.  The  difficulty  was  to  pull  him  up.  The 
Indians  proposed  shooting  him  with  arrows;  but  this  the 
“  Wanderer  ”  resisted.  “  I  had  come  about  three  hun¬ 
dred  miles  on  purpose  to  catch  a  cayman  uninjured,  and 
not  to  carry  back  a  mutilated  specimen.”  The  men 
pulled,  and  out  he  came  —  Mr.  Waterton  standing  armed 
with  the  mast  of  the  canoe,  which  he  proposed  to  force 
down  the  animal’s  throat. 

RIDING  ON  A  CROCODILE. 

By  the  time  the  cayman  was  within  two  yards  of  me, 
I  saw  he  was  in  a  state  of  fear  and  perturbation ;  I  in¬ 
stantly  dropped  the  mast,  sprung  up  and  jumped  on  his 
back,  turning  half  round  as  I  vaulted,  so  that  I  gained 
my  seat  with  my  face  in  a  right  position.  I  immediately 
seized  his  fore-legs,  and  by  main  force  twisted  them  on 
his  back ;  thus  they  served  me  for  a  bridle.  He  now 
seemed  to  have  recovered  from  his  surprise,  and,  probably 
fancying  himself  in  hostile  company,  he  began  to  plunge 
furiously,  and  lashed  the  sand  with  his  long  and  powerful 
tail.  I  was  out  of  reach  of  the  strokes  of  it,  by  being 
near  his  head.  He  continued  to  plunge  and  strike,  and 
made  my  seat  very  uncomfortable.  It  must  have  been 
a  fine  sight  for  an  unoccupied  spectator.  The  people 
roared  out  in  triumph,  and  were  so  vociferous,  that  it 
was  some  time  before  they  heard  me  tell  them  to  pull  me 
and  my  beast  of  burden  further  inland.  I  was  appre¬ 
hensive  the  rope  might  break,  and  then  there  would  have 
been  every  chance  of  going  down  to  the  regions  under 


492 


CHARLES  WATERTON 


water  with  the  cayman.  That  would  have  been  more 
perilous  than  Arion’s  marine  morning  ride  — 

Delphini  insidens,  vada  cseurula  sulcat  Arion. 

The  people  now  dragged  us  above  forty  yards  on  the 
sand ;  it  was  the  first  and  last  time  I  was  ever  on  a 
cayman’s  back.  Should  it  be  asked  how  I  managed  to 
keep  my  seat,  I  would  answer,  I  hunted  some  years  with 
Lord  Darlington’s  fox-hounds. 

The  cayman,  killed  and  stuffed,  was  also  added  to 
the  curiosities  of  Walton  Hall.  Mr.  Waterton’s  next 
work  was  Essays  on  Natural  History,  chiefly  Orni¬ 
thology,  with  an  Autobiography  of  the  Author  and  a 
view  of  Walton  Hall  1838  —  reprinted  with  additions 
in  1851.  His  account  of  his  family  —  an  old  Roman 
Catholic  family  that  had  suffered  persecution  from 
the  days  of  Henry  VIII.  downwards  —  is  a  quaint, 
amusing  chronicle. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBAN  A 


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